


Tooth and Claw

by The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting



Series: Dark!Mary [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, BDSM, DARK!Mary, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Femdom, Flashbacks, Hurt!Sherlock, M/M, Manipulation, Needle play, PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Triggers, broken!sherlock, ish, not sane safe consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting/pseuds/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can put up with anything, for John. Anything at all.</p><p>But even the great Sherlock Holmes has his breaking point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well here we go. The follow up to The Tiger's Paw, so I would recommend reading that one first.  
> people kept asking to see more and more is what you shall get!  
> Expect more dark!Mary and more hurt!Sherlock. Heed the warnings above. This is not at all a happy fic.
> 
> Also my first chaptered fic! Because apparently I just love hurting my baby.
> 
> Oh, you could probably tell from The Tiger's Paw but I have tweaked timelines slightly. Mary is not pregnant in this fic, nor is there a baby. This situation is messed up enough as it is, I couldn't add a kid to it too.

It is darkly ironic that Sherlock would gladly give all his other senses if he could only see right now. He needs sight to ground him. 

Without sight, he could be anywhere. 

Normally he would gladly take the chance to be able to slip away from the here and now; that was how he got through this. But just lately he has less control over where exactly his mind takes him. With increasing frequency it is the darker depth of his mind palace that open for him. 

Without sight, all his other senses go into overdrive and they’re finding this all just a little too familiar.

He is completely naked. Just the collar around his neck, and the harness keeping him in position. The straps attached to his arms are more than just the cuffs he is used to at home. They secure his arms together from wrist to elbow and keep them stretched high above his head, a rope looping through them connected to a bar near the ceiling. Nearly his whole weight is being held by his bound arms. If he could only stand properly he might be able to relieve some of the pain from his protesting shoulders. But the bar above is too high and his legs are held so far apart he is permanently on his toes and the balls of his feet, scrabbling for purchase. 

The ball gag is heavy against his tongue, the smell and taste of rubber choking him nearly as much as the constant intrusion. Already the corners of his mouth have split and are starting to bleed just slightly. 

They have tied the blindfold too tightly. It presses against his eyelids until he swears his very eyes ache.

A dark cell in Serbia could be waiting just beyond the blindfold.

“You weren’t kidding Mary, he’s fucking gorgeous.” It’s an English, female voice and Sherlock is almost relieved. 

There is suddenly a hand touching Sherlock’s hair and even though he had been expecting it he still flinches. 

“I told you,” Mary purrs, close enough that Sherlock now at least knows it is her touching him. 

The other woman is just watching for now. That shouldn’t be a comfort. He doesn’t want anyone touching him at all, certainly not Mary, but he would rather have what he is used to than an unknown entity. That is part of a new game for Mary. Making Sherlock grateful for her small acts of kindness, for easing up when she’s choking him to stop him passing out, for mopping him up when she’s made him bleed, for not letting this stranger touch him yet.

The other woman is the tattoo artist Mary had mentioned to him once before. Mary had said they should visit and let her play along with them. He had thought at the time that it was just an empty threat. He should have known, by now, that Mary does not do empty threats. 

Mary had announced where they would be going that morning whilst Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. Mary had been finishing her make up in the mirror and she had been smiling serenely at Sherlock in the reflection while she spoke.

Sherlock had considered running. He had considered hiding like a child. Not that there was anywhere he could run to that she wouldn’t be able to find him. Or more to the point, not that he wouldn’t return from later. Just staying away was not an option when it meant staying away from John too.  
Instead, Sherlock had frozen to the spot, unable to move from where he sat. 

“No,” he’d mumbled. Talking back to Mary was never a wise move but the panic coursing through him, the thought of another single person being party to his humiliation, made him bold. “No...I won’t...” 

Mary had turned and crossed the room in quick, light steps. She’d reached out and slapped him casually without once letting the smile drop from her face. 

“Now, now Sherlock. There’s no need to be so unreasonable.” She looked back over her shoulder, checking Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror, tilting his chin one way and then the other and tutting at the redness of his right cheek. As if it was somehow anything other than her fault. 

“We’ll have to even you up now.” She hit him again, on the other side of his face before speaking again.

“You are coming with me. If you’ll excuse a bad movie cliché, there’s an easy way and a hard way we can do this. The easy way,” she hit his right cheek again, “is you taking the tube with me like a good little boy. The hard way,” A blow to his left cheek, so hard he thinks he tastes blood, “is me dragging you there by that pretty little collar I gave you. Imagine all the people who would stare at that.” She stopped hitting him, at last, stroking over his cheekbones with her thumbs. “If I pay enough, I’m sure there’s a taxi firm will let me fuck you in the back seat the whole way there.” 

Sherlock had gone with the easy option. He’d taken the tube with Mary and she’d kept up a stream of happy, normal chatter the whole way there. When there weren’t enough seats for them both, she perched on Sherlock’s lap. People had smiled at them. One old lady had said they made a ‘lovely couple’. 

The tattooist’s name is, of all things, Angel. In the short time Sherlock could see Angel for, while he was made to crawl around the mercifully empty shop after the two women, she was not quite what Sherlock had expected. She was younger than Sherlock had been expecting, late twenties if that, and small too. Slim, and barely up to Mary’s should when the two embraced on greeting each other. One side of her hair was cut short, the over side down to her chin. Angel was rich, if her store was anything to go by; _Angel’s Ink_ was kitted out with all the best equipment. As was the rather more private room in the back, albeit for a very different purpose. 

Sherlock did not usually deduce a person’s sexual habits, unless it was for a case and then directly related to said case. Dull. It did not interest him. His powers of deduction were better occupied on more important matters. But Sherlock knew why he was here, and he couldn’t see Angel’s preferences as anything other than vital. He needed to at least know what he was in for.

Bisexual, polyamorous, rather a fan of kinky sex. Also rather smitten with Mary, for some reason. None of which would have made Sherlock even look twice normally. What people did and who they did it with was not his concern. Only this time, it was. Unfortunately for Sherlock, it didn’t seem Angel was a massive believer in the Safe Sane Consensual mentality. 

Angel had assured them she’d closed the shop for the whole afternoon. 

_“We’ve got hours free here, don’t worry.”_

Sherlock leans away from Mary’s touch as much as the restraints will allow, but Mary just guides him back with the hand in his hair. 

“Oh, please can I touch him, Mary?” Asks Angel. She puts on a silly schoolgirl, pleading voice. “Please?”

Sherlock goes tense waiting for Mary’s reply. Now he edges away from Angel’s voice, even if that means closer to Mary. 

“Aww, he’s gone all shy.” Mary gives his shoulder a pat before she answers Angel, dashing any hopes he has of keeping the other woman away.

“Of course you can touch him, darling. That’s what he’s here for.” 

For the first time Angel touches Sherlock, sending fresh shudders of fear and revulsion down his spine. The gloves Angel is wearing have the tips cut away to leave her long artists fingers free. She runs sharp nails down Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock breathing in sharply as she approaches his already sensitized nipples. Mary had him wear the clamps for hours yesterday. 

“What about the husband?”

“He’s visiting his sister.” Mary ruffles Sherlock’s hair how one might a child’s. “We’ve got a whole weekend together.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I meant, is he this lovely too?”

“Oh, yes!” Replies Mary, keenly. “He’s wonderful. And I’m not just saying that. Sherlock thinks so too, don’t you, Sherly-boy?” 

Sherlock tries to swallow around the gag but remains still. Mary’s hands tangle in his hair and pull, hard. 

“I asked you a question, pet.” Sherlock swallows again. He hadn’t realised she wanted an answer. “You think John’s wonderful too, don’t you?” 

Sherlock gives one, half-hearted struggle before slumping in his restraints. Resistance will only hurt him more and there’s no point lying. Mary already knows; that’s the whole point of this. Slowly, Sherlock nods. Nails dig into his scalp as Mary tugs harder. 

“Words, please, Sherlock.” She wipes away a trail of spit from the corner of his gagged mouth, and giggles. “Or as much as you can manage right now.” 

Sherlock presses his tongue against the ball stoppering his mouth and wretches dryly. Both the women laugh at him. Sherlock tries again to get his feet flat on the ground, to stand a little straighter, anything to ease the humiliation. He just embarrasses himself more, stumbling like a new-born deer, and now he’s made Mary angry for keeping her waiting. 

“I said, do you -” she hisses close to his hear, “- think John -” she bites at his earlobe, too hard to be playful, “-is wonderful?” 

Sherlock has no pride left to swallow. 

“Yes.” 

He tries to form the syllable around the gag but what escapes is so garbled and indistinct it sounds more like the noise of an animal. They get the point though and it sets them both giggling again. Mary does not leave it there.

“You want John to fuck you, don’t you?” 

Again, that mangled syllable. Yes.

“You love John, _don’t you_?” 

...Yes. 

Unseen by Sherlock, Mary grins in triumph. Sherlock knows that expression, the same one she always wears whenever she is particularly pleased about something. Usually humiliating Sherlock in some new way. 

Angel runs one finger around Sherlock’s left nipple. He squirms even at that light touch to the abused flesh.

“Do you ever think about having the two of them together?” Angel asks, casually, whilst pinching hard. “You could have the other one on his knees too. You could have them fuck each other.” 

Sherlock writhes. Far from the pain of Angel’s nails at his chest – he is used to that from Mary – he does not want her to talk about John. He doesn’t like it when Mary mentions him, sullies his name with her tongue. He certainly doesn’t want this stranger to start.

Mary wraps her arms around Sherlock from behind, one arm around his waist, one loose around his neck. She presses herself against his back to hold him. Sherlock can feel her breasts against his back, her own nipples hard through her lace bra as she holds him still for Angel to play with. The embrace would be loving, if it didn’t turn Sherlock’s stomach.

“Oh I’ve thought about it plenty.” Mary drawls. This is unwelcome news to Sherlock. Mary has never mentioned involving John in this before.

“I could fuck Sherlock with my strap on while he sucks off John. Or I could fuck one of them while the other watches.” She sighs happily and dramatically, an actress’s swoon to amuse Angel and sicken Sherlock. The idea of John ever seining him like this, reduced to this useless, senseless animal, makes Sherlock’s face burn with shame. 

Mary is too close to him. He can feel her breath against his ear.

“But, I’m afraid my John’s tastes are a little too vanilla for that. Hence why I’m having to shop around.” 

Sherlock tries to move his head free from Mary’s hold. She increases the pressure on his throat until he gasps. 

“I think someone’s getting a little impatient for us to start.” She says before releasing him. She and Angel both step back from Sherlock. For a moment there is silence as they appraise him. The quiet at the eye of a storm, a beach before the wave hits. 

“Do we have any limits, Mary?”

“Hmm...” Mary considers for a moment. “Nothing to mark that pretty little face of his. Nothing that will show when he’s out. And no broken bones, or anything that’s going to take more than a day or two to heal. I’d prefer to avoid permanently damaging him.” 

Angel runs a fingernail over Sherlock’s cheek, dipping beneath the strap of the gag.

“Pity about the no marking rule. He’d look ever so lovely with a few bruises.” 

“I only said no marking his face.” Replies Mary.

Sherlock gets no further warning. A second’s more stillness and then the first hit lands. It’s a punch straight to the stomach. This is not Mary’s style at all. It knocks all the air from Sherlock’s body. For the first time Sherlock is glad of the restraints because he would surely fall if not for them. Another blow to his side and he’s surprised his ribs don’t crack. He can’t figure out why this hurts so much. When he saw Angel, before the blindfold was fastened, she hadn’t looked very strong. She shouldn’t be able to hit this hard but she does it again and Sherlock actually does feel something crack this time. 

Sherlock had been trying to hold back until now but he can’t help it. He screams against the gag, his body convulsing as another punch lands, thankfully to his other side. Fire rips through his side and Mary had said no broken bones but she’s not stepping in to say anything so maybe she’s changed her mind, or maybe he’s just being a coward after all. He’s had worse than this, longer than this, and he could be here for days and either way he’s not going to tell them how he got there and he’ll be getting home to England soon and...

He’s confusing past with present again. Memory is merging with reality. He takes as deeper breath as he can manage as Angel breaks between punches, a pathetic whine of pain slipping out despite himself. Sherlock tries to think. He doesn’t get long before she is back on him again.

Something clicks into place around the time Sherlock feels the second rib crack. The gloves, he remembers. Of course, the gloves Angel was wearing. Metal worked into the knuckles. Designed expressly for this purpose. Ingenious really. 

Sherlock is screaming again but the sound doesn’t go anywhere. He is wasting air and energy, but can’t stop. Trapped behind the gag it just reverberates inside of Sherlock’s skull until it’s all a dull white noise. He doesn’t even notice at first when Angel stops again. 

It’s Mary’s voice that he first hears, distant and coming in and out of focus. That should be a tip off that something is wrong. 

“Christ, Angel, you really did a number on him.” But she sounds unconcerned as she kneels beside Sherlock and runs her tongue over bruised skin and broken bones. 

“I told you I play rough.” 

Angel’s voice is distant, surely further away than just the other side of the room. Sherlock’s head feels packed with a combination of cotton and steel wool. Everything muffled and ragged at the same time. Things are being moved, draws opened and shut. Again, Sherlock wishes he could see. 

“Not squeamish of needles, are we Sherlock?” When did Angel get so close?

Mary chuckles. 

“That’s a joke. Have you not seen the state of his arms? Sherlock’s a right little junkie.” 

“Well, his bloods had better be clean then, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t particularly fancy catching something tonight.” 

Sherlock can’t figure out what this conversation has to do with anything. And then he feels Angel’s hand on the back of his thigh, pinching his skin between her thumb and finger. A pinprick of pain, followed by the slow, sick feeling of a long needle being inserted horizontally into his skin. Sherlock is forgetting how to breathe properly.

Angel moves an inch or two down Sherlock’s thigh and repeats the process. And again. And again. The noise inside his head has grown to a roar. It’s almost deafening. Weakness is making his whole body shake and Mary has to hold his leg still for Angel. Blood starts to trickle down his leg.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Relax, he’s fine. I’m not hitting any major veins.” Angel slaps him over the needles she’s already inserted to prove her point. It is a whole new sensation, one Sherlock has never felt before, nor ever wishes to again. 

“That’s the really cool thing. You can cane right over the top of the needles and it barely leaves any damage at all.” 

Sherlock’s senses are dropping off one by one. Now he can no longer see or hear. Now he can feel nothing other than what Angel is doing to his leg, and the fact he is being held like this. He almost wishes this were really Serbia, because then Mycroft might still be sitting in that chair, and he might step in and help some time soon.

The knowledge that no one is going to help him is the last thing to go. 

There is dampness behind the blindfold.

Sherlock knows he is going to pass out less than a second before he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter will be up soon! In the mean time, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated....Please don't hate me for what i do to Sherlock.
> 
> Coincidentally, I REALLY hope there isn't really a tattooists called Angel's Ink.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock was younger, he fell into a pond in the middle of winter. He and Mycroft had been in the park all day and had somehow lost track of where frozen earth shifted to ice beneath their feet. It wasn’t until they heard the ice crack and Sherlock shot downwards that they remembered the pond at all. It wasn’t deep, thankfully. He managed to get to the edge and haul himself out with only minimal help from Mycroft. It was funny more than anything.

Sherlock wasn’t injured but what he was was soaked to the skin and utterly frozen. Already cold and then drenched with arctic water from head to toe. 

On the walk back home, it had started to snow. Mycroft had to carry Sherlock the last little way and Sherlock had sobbed with the cold.

He hadn’t thought it was possible to feel any colder than that. Until now. 

He is gripped with an all encompassing chill that clings to his very bones.

Dimly, Sherlock is aware of people moving around him. He is being held standing, briefly, then laid on the floor. Voices. Someone shouting at him. Or near him. Or about him. Whichever way, it doesn’t make any difference because Sherlock can’t hear them. He certainly can’t respond. He wonders when it was that he became buried in snow for surely that is what has happened. His body convulses with tremors. All he can see is white. 

Faces, the glimpses of them too brief to take in who they are. They come and go. 

Two women.

One blonde. 

Alarm bells ring inside Sherlock’s head.

_Liar._

Mary. 

Sherlock’s arms won’t obey him when he tries to raise them to protect himself. He can’t piece together where he is or what is going on but if Mary is there, Sherlock wants to be as far away as possible. 

It's only when someone kicks him and tells him to shut up that Sherlock can hear himself screaming. 

White shifts to black and merciful oblivion again. 

Mary comes to him again sometime later. Sherlock is more aware now. He can tell at least that he is unrestrained, and lying on something far softer than the floor. For now at least he is numb which is probably a good thing. A sheet falls from his shoulder as he stirs. So he's in bed.

That doesn’t do much to calm him down. Especially not when Mary is close. Much, much too close. She’s kneeling beside the bed, looking right into his eyes.

“Sherlock?” her voice is unnaturally tentative. The expression on her face is one Sherlock can’t remember seeing there before. Worried, he realises. She looks genuinely worried. Sherlock looks past her and sees the familiar wall paper of his room at Baker Street. He doesn’t remember getting here but he’s so glad he’s not still in that room with Angel, or that foul, stinking cell, that the in between doesn’t matter so much. 

Credit where it’s due, Mary is stronger than she seems. She must be, if she managed to get him across town and up a flight of stairs on her own. 

Shadows still leap at the corner of Sherlock’s vision.

Mary sees he is awake and runs a shaky hand through her hair.

“My god, you scared me.” She laughs, as though this was all some big trick he was playing. “What happened, Sherlock?” 

Like he has any idea. 

“Sherlock?” 

The room keeps tilting alarmingly with no reason and he can feel nausea building. Sherlock closes his eyes but that draws his attention to how strong the smell of vomit already is. He can’t remember being sick. 

“Don’t you dare turn your back on me!” 

Sherlock wasn’t aware he’d done that either but now he goes one step further and tries to cover his ears. His arms are still dead weights and don’t do what he wants, but Mary gets the idea. She grabs his wrist, fast losing her concern. Sherlock screams again and finds his throat raw. 

They struggle for a minute or two. Mary is angry and Sherlock is just making her more so but he can’t seem to stop. It’s not much of a fight. As feeling does begin to return to Sherlock’s arms it’s in a useless, painful rush of stabbing pins and needles. Static in his veins.

Mary gets on top of him easily and forces one arm down to the mattress. Sherlock still tries to fight her off one handed but his coordination has gone now too, blind panic taking over and he’s mostly just flailing at her. She gets that wrist too and holds it down against his own face, covering his mouth with his own hand and hers. 

“Shut up,” She hisses. “Do you want Mrs Hudson to hear?” 

Mrs Hudson is out. She has to be, or she’d already be up here to see what all the commotion is about. Still, there are the neighbours, and she could be back soon. At any point she could come back and walk into this room to see Sherlock in bed, with John’s wife atop him. That quiets Sherlock but Mary doesn’t let him go. 

“Look...things got a bit crazy today, right? A bit out of hand.” Mary’s voice is shaky but she’s rapidly talking herself back to calmness. She gives the hand not covering his mouth a little squeeze before letting go. “Angel went too far. She’s never been good at knowing when to say when...and you panicked and got a bit scared.” 

Sherlock just wants her to get off of him.

“Well, I’ve got you home now. You’re fine. You will be fine.” She does at last let him go and gets to her feet. She stands beside the bed and looks him up and down. 

The sheet got kicked to one side somewhere during their fighting and now she picks it up and drapes it back over Sherlock, ignoring or not noticing how he cringes away from her. 

“There...You’ll be fine.” Sherlock wants to remind her that just repeating something lots of times doesn’t make it true. “I’m going to go now, Sherlock, leave you to get some rest.” She pats his shoulder lightly.

_Please just leave._

Mary is at the door when she pauses and looks back at Sherlock again.

“I’ll leave a message for Mrs Hudson not to disturb you...I’ll say you’re working on a case or something. If you’re a good boy, I’ll get John to call in when he gets back from Harry’s.”

Sherlock nods, stiffly. He has no idea what being a good boy means. Doing what Mary says, probably. Not making a fuss. Just staying here and waiting for this to pass. Well yes, he can do that. He’s not sure he’s capable of doing anything else.

~

Sherlock is not aware of how long he lays there. Hours. Days. It could be longer. Dreams merge with waking. He thinks people are in his room, standing at the foot of his bed, leaning over him. A couple of times he could swear he’s being bound again. The people at the foot of his bed are yelling at him.

_"Get up. Stand up and face me."_

_"Don't slip away just yet, we're not done talking."_

_"Just tell us what we want, and then you can sleep."_

_"Remember sleep?"_

_"Get up, freak."_

Of course Mary's voice cuts through the others, the ones that don't even have names

_"There's nothing wrong with you, Sherlock. Nothing I can't beat out of you, anyway."_

He loses track of where he is just as much as how long he has been there. He smells vomit and sweat and blood and panics.

When the familiar setting sinks in and he wakes a little, more than once he calls for John. But of course, John doesn’t live at Baker Street anymore. Sherlock keeps forgetting that too. Wishful thinking.

Sherlock is just so cold. So very, very cold. It will not leave him. He should get up and put the heating on, or find something to wear. At the very least he should shut the window. Mary must have opened it before she left. Sherlock never leaves the windows open, certainly not while he’s lying down, vulnerable. It would be asking for trouble. 

He wants Mrs Hudson to come back from...wherever she is, to ignore Mary’s message and to come check on him anyway. He wants Lestrade to text about a new case, and then text again and, when Sherlock doesn’t reply, maybe call. Lestrade might panic after that, race to Sherlock’s home in a police car, send a whole armed response unit to Baker Street. That man does have rather a habit of worrying where Sherlock is concerned. This time it might actually be justified.

Sherlock even wishes for Mycroft. 

He wishes for Mycroft quite a bit actually.

When he next dreams it is more of a memory, one he can place. 

_It’s from a while ago, back when this first started. It’s not the first time, but it’s early._

_He is lying on his stomach and Mary is on top of him again, holding him down to the mattress, again. She presses her hands against his shoulders and forces him to keep lying down._

_Sherlock thinks this maybe happened on the floor at John’s place...no, it was on the floor of this flat...It must have been, because that is why Mary is angry at him. He didn’t go to her when she rang._

_“You were hiding from me, weren’t you Sherlock?” Sherlock mumbles something but Mary ignores him, forces him down further._

_“You’re pathetic.”_

_She digs her nails in and the memory of pain, of pressure on tense muscles and sensitive nerves makes Sherlock shudder even in his dream._

_“You thought if you didn’t come to me, I wouldn’t come looking for you?”_

_In his dream Sherlock is too weak to struggle but he knows he did struggle at least a little bit in reality. He always used to fight back in the beginning._

_“Or maybe you wanted me to come looking. You wanted a little more attention, is that it?” She gets off of him. Sherlock would go weak with relief if it wasn’t for her words, and if he didn’t already know what happens next._

_“You want to play hide and seek like a child, Sherlock, then we can do that. You go hide and if I don’t find you in...oh, ten minutes, I’ll leave you alone today. But if I find you...Well, you have been a very naughty boy today.” She slaps his arse to get him moving. “Go on Sherlock, clock’s ticking.”_

_They both know who’ll win._

_There aren’t that many places to hide in Baker Street._

Sherlock only wakes properly when he thinks he hears someone calling his name. 

Coming back to the reality of his room is not what Sherlock could call comforting. His body aches all over and the pain in his ribs seems to have redoubled. The back of his thigh throbs. Only the pain in his arms has faded. Now it’s just a dull burn.

He coughs as he attempts to get sitting upright and fails, laying back down heavily, holding his sides. The smell of vomit is mostly stale now. He’s not eaten anything so his stomach is empty, nothing else to bring back up. Another smell is stronger now, and more shaming by far. In the time he has lain there, he has wet himself like a child. Like a baby. 

Mary was right, he really is pathetic.

“Sherlock?”

Someone is calling his name. They’re closer now, right outside his door, but speaking softer.

“Sherlock, are you awake?”  
And Sherlock knows that voice.

John is back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is so short, but it kind of is needed. I hope you lot enjoy it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of made up for the short chapter last time by having a long one this time. Sorry to have kept you waiting!

For the first time, Sherlock does not want John here.

In the days that Sherlock had lain in his room, he had been longing for John. Whenever he has been with Mary, he always longs for John. He needs to hear John’s voice to silence everything Mary said to him. He needs to feel John’s hand on his shoulder to wipe away Mary’s touch. But now he wants John to go away, or to wait outside the room at least. 

Whatever happens, John can’t come in, because John _cannot_ see Sherlock like this. Maybe if John just waits out there Sherlock can drag himself out of bed and get dressed. All Sherlock needs is a few minutes to strip his sheets and stuff them into the bottom of the wardrobe to get rid of later. He can give John a bleary hello on his way to the bathroom. He can tell John he’s just got off a case and John will understand. He’s used to Sherlock’s ways; not sleeping for days on end and then crashing, post-case, not properly conscious again for a day at least. 

A few minutes in the shower might be enough to revive him. And magically heal broken bones and close open wounds and melt bruises. 

Sherlock knows it is not going to work – he is not that stupid to truly believe that it will – but he still has to try. He tries to call out but all that leaves him is a pathetic groaning sound that is going to do nothing but worry John further. 

John does at least knock before entering. It gives Sherlock a chance to pull the filthy sheet up to his chest, hiding the worst of the damage. 

John is pleased to be seeing Sherlock. He is half smiling as he opens the door and steps into the bedroom. His mouth is open, ready to tell Sherlock something about his journey or his weekend with Harry. Then he freezes in the doorway. His mouth stays open.

“Hello, John,” says Sherlock. He wants to sound casual, like it’s every other day that you walk into a room and find your former flatmate in this state. 

Sherlock may be a brilliant actor, but that is one step too far even for him. His voice wavers. He can’t quite meet John’s eye. He had once said ‘Hello, John’ whilst in a drugs den, high as a kite and made it sound normal. But now, in the comfort of his own bedroom, stone cold sober, he can’t manage it. 

John stumbles a half step backwards. Possibly it is because he has gone weak and suddenly needs to lean against the door for support, but Sherlock doesn’t see it that way. He sees himself as John must see him; scared and stupid, lying in a filthy bed, covered in his own piss and vomit. He’d back away from him too.

“My God, Sherlock...” John has to stop there. He takes a deep breath – possibly ill advised in this room right now – and attempts to stay calm. “Sherlock...What’s happened?” 

“Flashback.” Says Sherlock, truthfully. “Serbia.” 

“Flashback...” John echoes. John knows about flashbacks, he knows about post traumatic stress, and that probably works for Sherlock’s advantage. At least he doesn’t ask what happened to trigger it just yet. His eyes scan the room and take it all in. Sherlock squirms under his stricken gaze.

“Mary said you weren’t looking well when she left you but...” John runs a hand through his hair, unknowingly mirroring Mary, hopefully missing Sherlock’s shudder. “How long have you been here?”

Sherlock tries to think, trying to track the days from when he last saw John, before he left for Harry’s for the weekend. If Mary kept her promise to send John as soon as he got back then today must be...Monday. Afternoon, probably. If not, then Tuesday. 

“I don’t know.” Sherlock admits. “Two...three days maybe?”

“Three days...” John repeating everything Sherlock says is not helping. It sounds so much worse the way John says it. 

Tentatively, John edges closer to the bed. Sherlock watches his every movement at first but has to look away as John gets closer. He gets close enough to see how Sherlock is shivering, to see the thin sheen of cold sweat on his skin. John slowly crouches beside the bed. Twice he reaches for Sherlock, thinking better of it at the last minute. Sherlock is looking resolutely down at his own knees so it comes as a shock when John reaches out a third time and this time touches Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock tenses considerably but John doesn’t pass comment on that. What he does comment on is how cold Sherlock is. Sherlock doesn’t even shrug. 

There is something very military in the way John stands up, squaring his shoulders firmly. But it is the doctor in him that shows in his eyes, in the way he is now looking at his patient. He’s concerned, yes, but with resolute belief that this can be fixed. Or at least, he’s going to try. 

The first thing John does is go to the window and close it. Without knowing it, he has already done the thing that Sherlock has been wanting. 

“Sherlock,” he says, as he returns to the bedside. “I need to ask you something. I’m only going to ask you once and whatever you say, I’ll believe you, but I’m not going to get mad either.” 

John’s tone is so deathly serious that is shocks Sherlock. Briefly, he wonders if John has figured it out, if he is even now about to ask Sherlock if Mary did this to him. 

But no.

“Sherlock. Have you...taken anything? Something you’re not supposed to?” 

So that is what John thinks. Drugs. Given Sherlock’s track record, he can’t say he blames John for jumping to that conclusion. But the knowledge that that is the first thing on John’s mind is enough to make Sherlock’s heart sink. He tries to mask it, but something must show because he is still stammering out a broken ‘no’ when John is already trying to placate him. 

“Alright Sherlock, alright. I just needed to know.” John sits wearily on the edge of the bed. “I need to know if I can touch you, now. Or is that going to make things worse?” 

It had been a long time since anyone had asked if they could touch Sherlock. John had never asked before. He had just done it, no questions asked. They used to touch all the time. A hand on his shoulder, or against his back. Their fingers touching as they handed an object to one another. Sitting side by side on the sofa. Recently they had even taken to hugging on occasion. It had all been so casual before. 

“It’s...fine.” says Sherlock. It is more than fine. John is the first person to ask if he can touch Sherlock and he is also the only person Sherlock would have said yes to. 

John’s hand is warm against Sherlock’s forehead, as they feel for a temperature, his fingers gentle as they move around Sherlock’s head, checking for injury there. John looks into Sherlock’s eyes and Sherlock doesn’t know if that’s a further examination, or whether John is doing it to reassure him. John smiles before moving on. 

His fingers pause when he reaches Sherlock’s neck. Slowly, feather light, he traces a long scratch across Sherlock’s collar bone. If Angel of Mary did that to him, Sherlock can’t remember. It’s possible he did it to himself while he was thrashing around in his sleep. John opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Sherlock keeps a tight grip on the sheets; if John doesn’t like the look of that scratch he is really not going to like what he sees further down Sherlock’s body. 

Sherlock had been expecting a full examination from the doctor so he’s surprised when John stands again. He takes out his phone as starts typing for a few quiet moments before talking. Checking symptoms, Sherlock thinks, or searching for what the latest medical advice is when dealing with the shell of your best friend. 

“I just need to get a few things from the bathroom,” says John, putting his phone away again. “I’m only going to be next door.”

Sherlock doesn’t know why John feels the need to reassure him of this, but the other man has barely left the room when the doubt sets in. He has seen and heard so many things over these past few days that have turned out not to be real. Would it be completely unheard of for his brain to give him one pleasant hallucination to go with all the nightmares? 

John is gone less than a minute before Sherlock is calling out, nearly begging, for him to come back. 

“It’s alright,” John’s voice replies. “I’m still here. I won’t be long.” 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock says, feeling foolish. 

“You don’t need to apologise, Sherlock. Have you moved things around in here? I can’t find anything.”

“Possibly Mrs Hudson has been tidying again.”

Sherlock gets what John is doing; keeping talking to keep Sherlock calm. He appreciates it, he really does, but it doesn’t quite work. He still manages to build himself up into a panic whenever John goes quiet. He’s actually wrapped the sheet around himself and is in the slow and painful process of trying to stand when the other man reappears in the doorway. John is clearly surprised to see Sherlock halfway out of bed but he recovers quickly.

“Well, at least you’re on the move.” He sets down the items he just collected on floor – the bedside table being too cluttered to even fit a clean cup – and helps Sherlock get sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s filled a bowl with warm water and fetched the large first aid kit he left behind when he moved out. Sherlock has had to resort to it several times since then. 

John gestures at the bowl and a fresh cloth. 

“I thought this might be best for now. We can get you cleaned up properly later, once I’ve had a proper look at you and you’ve eaten something. You might be a bit steadier then.”

Sherlock just nods to show he is in agreement. He’s not sure he can manage food, personally, but he lived with John long enough to know this is something the doctor will not be moved on. 

“I’m going to be as gentle as I can, but if you need me to stop, just let me know.” 

John dampens the cloth and slowly, tenderly starts wiping clean the days old sweat from Sherlock’s face. He moistens Sherlock’s cracked lips and gently wipes the corners of his mouth where the traces of vomit still cling. He pauses again when he reaches that cut on Sherlock’s collar bone but he cleans that too, taking extra care, and dresses the wound

It takes some encouragement from John to get Sherlock to drop the sheet but he knows John is going to see eventually. Sherlock is grateful that John doesn’t shout when he sees the state of Sherlock’s body. He must have already suspected something because he doesn’t even gasp. His mouth just sets into a grim line and he carries on with the task in hand. 

John’s hands do linger when they reach Sherlock’s stomach, the bruises now a violent array of colours. 

“What happened to cause your flashback, Sherlock?” John asks, quietly. Sherlock chooses not to answer. John traces the marks and presses ever so lightly, investigating the damage. Sherlock can’t keep back his yelp of pain, or the instinctive curling of his body away from John. 

“You’ve got cracked ribs.” 

Still Sherlock remains quiet. He is glad at least that the redness from the nipple clamps has faded; that might be one clue too many. 

John gets Sherlock to stand so that he can finish up. Sherlock sways where he stands and nearly falls straight back down again. John has to steady him and wait until he has gotten a better balance, still insisting that if he needs to stop, they can. Sherlock shakes his head; he wants to get this over with. John kneels in front of him and slides the pants Mary left him in down to the floor.

Sherlock can feel himself burn red with shame as John’s hands move lower than before. He remembers the last hands that were on his cock and how, at one stage, he would have given anything for John to be the one touching him there. Just not like this. Still, John is the absolute picture of professionalism and in that moment Sherlock is just another patient. He only pauses again when he reaches the back of Sherlock’s right thigh. 

No matter what Angel said about how her needles wouldn’t leave a mark, there’s obviously something left there for John’s hands to feel. He wipes the cloth over where Angel forced the needles into Sherlock flesh and can’t possibly miss the way Sherlock shivers against him. Clearly though, he has decided not to ask Sherlock again, to wait until he is ready to talk by himself. He applies antiseptic to that too, just like he did with the cut on Sherlock’s collar bone, and places a large dressing over it.

Soon it is all done, and John gets to his feet again. 

Getting dressed is another task altogether. It is apparent that Sherlock is not going to be able to put on actual clothes. Nor can he remain naked. He is still shivering with cold even after the warm water and he wants to be covered as soon as possible. In the end they decide on pyjamas and John fetches a fresh set from the chest of drawers. They decide to forgo a top altogether to avoid hurting Sherlock’s ribs further, so John helps him into his dressing gown and draws it around him, leaving the belt undone. 

John wants Sherlock to wait on the bed while he gets the sofa ready but Sherlock won’t hear of it. He doesn’t want to let John out of his sight for any longer than necessary. So, Sherlock shuffles after him to the living room and leans against the wall while John prepares the sofa. He arranges the cushions so that Sherlock can rest sitting up and then, when Sherlock is sat, gives him two spare blankets to wrap around himself. Deciding Sherlock still looks cold, John fetches a third blanket. This one he drapes over Sherlock’s head which sends Sherlock into a fit of surprised laughter.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock yelps, fighting with the blanket. John is grinning at him when he finally gets free. Sherlock knows what John is doing. He is getting them both laughing again, anything to make this feel slightly less deathly serious. He turns the television on for a bit of background noise and flicks through the channels until he finds some comedy panel show. Normally Sherlock would hate it, claim it was mind numbing drivel, but now he tolerates it. Even maybe enjoys it a little. Mind numbing is what he is in need of. 

It almost feels like old times in the flat, with John moving about from room to room and Sherlock zoning out on the sofa. John strips Sherlock’s bed and starts a cycle on the washing machine for the sheets and a pile of Sherlock’s clothes that were lying on the floor. Sherlock realises they were the clothes he was wearing at the weekend. He hadn’t even noticed Mary had left them there. 

Sherlock half dozes. He’s barely been conscious for days but he’s still exhausted. It’s not like it was a restful sleep before. Now, with John here, Sherlock can almost relax. 

Sherlock hears the front door open and shut downstairs. Mrs Hudson is clearly back. She will probably come up to see him and John if she hears the telly on. Sure enough, there are the footsteps on the stairs. 

If Sherlock was fully himself he would notice that the footsteps were too quick and bouncing, the footfall all wrong, to be Mrs Hudson. As it is, he notices none of this. It is only when the door opens and a voice that is very much not Mrs Hudson’s calls out that he realises what is wrong. Then Sherlock freezes; a rabbit in the path of an oncoming truck.

“I’m here!” Calls Mary, cheerily. She isn’t smirking, or grinning, she is just smiling a perfectly normal smile. She stamps her feet a little, spreading a tiny puddle of rain water onto the floor. “It’s horrible out there.” She adds, to no one in particular. 

John leans around the corner from the kitchen where he had been pottering about. He smiles back at Mary. He doesn’t glance at the sofa as he crosses the room, so he doesn’t see what state Mary’s appearance has put Sherlock in. Instead he just kisses his wife on the cheek and helps her remove her coat.

“Thanks for coming over.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock does not like it when Mary calls John ridiculous, even when she is being so light hearted. “Of course I was going to come over when you said how ill Sherlock was.” 

_Of course_ , thinks Sherlock. Of course John would have asked her to come. John had never been checking medical facts on his phone before, he had been texting Mary. It makes sense, to John. As far as he knows, Mary might as well be Sherlock’s second best friend, for all the time they spend together. 

John and Mary both finally glance at Sherlock, still rigid with fear gaze flickering between the door, the window, and Mary. He keeps looking back at her hands. He wants to keep his eye on where her hands are. Sherlock feels bad, even now, for how crestfallen John sounds when he speaks. 

“He had been a bit better. But now...I should have been keeping an eye on him.” 

“Oh well,” says Mary in a sing-song voice. “It doesn’t matter, I’m here now. I can help.” She unwinds her blood red scarf from her neck and hands it to John for him to hang up with her coat. “I’m here now, Sherlock.” She repeats, slowly, raising her voice slightly, how one might to someone who is less than fully functioning. Sherlock might not be fully functioning, but he catches the promise, or threat, in her tone. 

She suddenly rushes forwards, crowding into Sherlock’s space without warning. Panicked defence mode kicks in and he raises his arms to defend himself. Mary gets to him before he can though. She doesn’t really attack him. She never would, not in front of John, but what she does is almost as bad. He flings her arms around Sherlock and draws him against her chest in a hug. The movement of his arms was so fleeting and feeble that if John noticed at all, it probably just looked like he was going to hug her back. 

“I was so worried.” Sherlock remembers how concerned Mary had looked when she first brought him back to the flat. Yes. She had been worried. Worried he’d be so ill he’d need to go to the hospital, or that he’d say something he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Why didn’t you _call_?”

Mary wants Sherlock to play along, to put on a show for John. But he can’t think of any response. He does not have the energy. It’s all he can do not to scream. Mary runs one finger along the back of Sherlock’s neck. She knows exactly what this is doing to Sherlock. 

John heads back to the kitchen as Mary draws away. She’s still smiling, but it’s getting less friendly, more predatory by the second. 

“I’m here to help now. I’ll look after you, Sherlock.” She’s still talking loudly, all of this for John’s benefit. She continues to babble similar nonsense and she kneels in front of Sherlock and puts one hand on his knee. Sherlock would back away, if he had any further back to go. “We’ll sort out whatever’s wrong with you Sherlock, just wait and see.” 

John may be able to hear from the kitchen, but he can’t see the sofa. He can’t see how Sherlock cowers away, or how Mary is now scraping her nails along his leg. John flicks the kettle on to boil and Mary uses the sound as cover to lean in closer still and lower her voice to a hiss only Sherlock can hear. 

“I know just what’s wrong with you and it’s nothing ten minutes alone with me won’t cure.” A quick glance over her shoulder to check John is still busy, she turns back again, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “Is John right? You actually pissed yourself?” 

The kettle clicks off and she seamlessly switches yet again. She sits back. 

“How long did you say he was in bed, John?” 

“Not sure. You said days, didn’t you?” John is still talking to him, even if he already knows he’s not going to get a clear answer. 

“He looked a bit ill when I left him,” explains Mary. “But I swear, John, nothing like this.” 

John comes back in from the kitchen and now some of that concern that had previously been all focussed on Sherlock, is now aimed at Mary. 

“I know that.” He says, softly. 

“This is my fault...if I’d just stayed with him.” Sherlock almost laughs at the act Mary is putting on. She even lets out a dry little sob and puts one hand to her mouth. But oh, John is not going to stand back and watch that at all. He crosses the room and kneels beside his wife, wrapping her in his arms. 

“Hey, hey... none of this is your fault. Don’t you dare blame yourself.” He gives her a little squeeze and kisses the top of her head. “It could just as easily have been you who got ill, and Sherlock wouldn’t have known any more than you did. Well, maybe Sherlock would, because he’s Sherlock.” John adds, fondly. 

Mary does not smirk as she looks over John’s shoulder, but her eyes are definitely fixed on Sherlock, her gaze boring into him. She is showing Sherlock exactly where John’s affections lie. He may be tolerating Sherlock, but it’s Mary that he loves. John gives her another reassuring squeeze and the pair break apart, both getting to their feet, Mary turning off the TV. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” She says. “Let’s go get you cleaned up properly.” 

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. Mary takes hold of his wrist, firmly but not enough to hurt. She gives a gentle tug. 

“I can get you bathed while John cooks dinner.” She’s trying to dismiss John, get him to leave. He does start to make his way back to the kitchen, but it’s with glances over his should, ready to move back again to help if Sherlock falls as he gets up. 

Sherlock does not get up. He doesn’t care what else happens right now, he just does not want to do anything with just him and Mary alone. Certainly not rooms away from John, behind a locked bathroom door. He tries to slip his wrist free. There’s a crack in Mary’s facade; her eyes narrow and there’s just a hint of annoyance in her voice. 

“Come along, Sherlock.” She changes her grip so that both her hands are now gripping his forearms. Still more supporting than pulling, at least in appearances. 

“No,” Sherlock mumbles. John pauses and looks back at him. Mary brings her thumbs and fingers together like two slow vices. She gives another small tug, trying to get Sherlock standing, but still he doesn’t move. John starts to say something, but whether to get Mary to ease off, or to tell Sherlock to stop being stupid, they never find out. Because to everyone’s surprise, not least of all Sherlock’s, it is Sherlock who acts first. 

It is instinct, not properly thought through. His hands suddenly move, palms against Mary’s shoulders and he shoves with a force he wouldn’t have thought possible of himself ten seconds ago. Mary lets him go and stumbles backwards, from the push or from Sherlock’s shouting, because he _is_ shouting. 

“I said, no! I don’t want you. I...I just...John. I only want John.” 

Silence fills the flat. John and Mary both stare at Sherlock. Sherlock cannot take it. He sinks back into the sofa again, drawing his knees up to his chest. He doesn’t know what came over him but it’s clear he’s in big trouble now. He has just resisted Mary – rather forcibly – and Sherlock doesn’t even want to think what the repercussions of that are going to be when Mary gets him on her own. But worse, much worse than that, he just yelled at Mary in front of John. Sherlock may be John’s best friend but he is not going to take kindly to Sherlock shouting at, let alone pushing, his wife. Sherlock hides his face against his knees and tries to keep back the sobs that are already starting to shake his body. 

He wonders if John will yell at him, or just leave with Mary. 

It is Mary who breaks the silence first. She tilts her head back and laughs a high, tinkling giggle, just how she had laughed with Angel. 

“Oh Sherlock. Silly boy, you don’t know what-” 

“Don’t laugh at him, Mary.” John cuts across her. Sherlock looks up fractionally, hardly daring to believe what he just heard. John is frowning, but it’s at Mary, not Sherlock. 

“What?” Snaps Mary, as though she can’t believe her ears either. 

“Don’t. Don’t laugh at him. Just, don’t.” 

Mary gapes at John soundlessly, lost for words for a few moments. 

“He just yelled at me, John.” She says eventually. “He just pushed me.” 

“I know,” John sighs, resignedly. “But he’s not well, Mary. He’s not thinking straight and he’s probably going to feel really bad about that when he’s better but just...you shouldn’t laugh at him. He can’t help how he reacts.” 

“I was only trying to help.” Mary’s shoulders slump under John’s words, trying to make herself look mollified. John puts a hand on her shoulder, not quite the embrace from before. 

“I know. And Sherlock will know that too, once he’s calmed down.” John keeps looking back at Sherlock now, worried to take his eyes off from him for too long. He wants to go to Sherlock, to comfort him, but he has to pacify Mary, first. “Look, I’m sorry, Mary. I thought you coming over would help too. But, maybe it’s best if it’s just me and Sherlock for now?” 

Sherlock holds his breath until he sees Mary nod. She and John both head for the door, still talking as Mary puts her coat back on, a little more forcibly than she would normally. 

“I really was only trying to help.” She insists. John tells her he knows, again. He winds her scarf tenderly around her neck. Mary’s skin is considerably paler now, the colour high on her cheeks. The red wool against the white of her neck makes it look as though she’s been garrotted. John leans in to kiss her and Sherlock hides his head again. He was never fond of seeing Mary and John kiss, even before all of this started. 

They mumble to each other for a moment, between more kisses probably initiated by Mary as she is the one facing the room, who can see the reaction it has on Sherlock. Sherlock catches snippets of the words they are saying. Words like ‘tomorrow’ and ‘I’ll call’ and, from John ‘I’m sorry’. Sherlock doesn’t look up when he hears Mary leave. He doesn’t even look up when he hears the front door to the street open and close once more. John doesn’t move for a while either. He stays in the doorway, watching Sherlock, planning his next move. 

“Sherlock?” John moves forwards, to get a better look at Sherlock. He stays beside the sofa at first but when there’s no response he sits. He keeps to the other end of the sofa, keeping a safe distance between himself and Sherlock. “It’s me, Sherlock. It’s John.” 

Sherlock knows it is John. Even in the depths of a nightmare he would know John’s voice. He appreciates the comfort all the same. 

“She’s gone now Sherlock. No one else is here. It’s just me. Just you and me.” 

Cautiously, John places a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. When Sherlock doesn’t pull away John rubs light circles, waiting for Sherlock to get his breathing back under control. He keeps murmuring to Sherlock, letting him know it’s still just him, letting him know that he’s not going anywhere. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this was originally going to be an even longer chapter and wasn't going to break just yet. But now seemed like a logical point to end here and get working on the next chapter. Hopefully the next chapter will be up in the next week or so. Toodle pip for now!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was that i said about not keeping you waiting too long? Guess that went out the window pretty quickly. I hope some of you are still interested in this strange, dark little story I am writing - my lack of updates had nothing to do with lack of enthusiasm and everything to do with lack of time...And that one fic i wrote as a break :P

John stays beside Sherlock on the sofa for a very long time. He doesn’t move any closer, doesn’t pull Sherlock into an embrace that Sherlock is surprised to find he is still wanting, but he doesn’t back away either. He doesn’t retract his hand, just keeps up those slow, smooth circles on Sherlock’s back. The material of Sherlock’s dressing gown is thin. John must be able to feel scars through it, long, raised welts in Sherlock’s flesh, but he still doesn’t stop. John had seen those scars before – it would be hard for him not to, the amount of time he spends with Sherlock – but the touch of them does not repulse him either. And that is a comfort to Sherlock too. 

Sherlock raises his head at last. He has a suspicion John would stay like that all evening if Sherlock did not move first. 

“Thank you, John,” he mumbles, voice hoarse again from misuse and his outburst at Mary. John smiles at him, but it is a smile not without sadness. 

“There’s no need to thank me,” he says. “So far, I haven’t done anything that any other friend wouldn’t do for you.”

Sherlock wants to remind John that he has no other friends, none like John anyway, but he feels that would be overdramatic. He just shrugs instead and looks away. John had been looking right into his eyes. 

John gives Sherlock’s shoulder a final squeeze and gets to his feet, stretching. One of his joints clicks after so long sat down. He glances around the room, clearly wondering what his next move should be. 

“Do you feel up to eating?” he asks eventually. “I was just about to cook before...” Sherlock is worried John might mention Mary again already but he does not. He lets his voice trail into tactful silence, as though he had been about to cook but then for no reason stopped to sit with Sherlock on the sofa. He waits for an answer.

The truth is, no. The thought of food turns Sherlock’s stomach slightly but he knows he is, truthfully, very hungry, even if he is nauseas to go with it. His stomach has been completely empty for days now. He nods and mumbles something that could be a yes. 

“Good.” John disappears into the kitchen once more. Sherlock likes the distance even less now and makes several, stumbling attempts to get to his feet. He manages it on the fourth go. He follows after John to the kitchen by resting one hand on the wall and leaning against it the whole way, like a blind person feeling his way around an unfamiliar room. Not the great Sherlock Holmes in his own flat. 

John has his back to Sherlock at first. When he turns from one of the cupboards he must be startled by Sherlock’s sudden presence but he doesn’t show it. 

“Hello. Come to check up on me?” He jokes, fondly. “Don’t worry, I won’t subject you to any of my cooking just yet. I’ll just heat up some soup for now. Is tomato okay?” 

Sherlock nods again. He has no preference and his brain is still sluggish; he doesn’t feel he could make a choice if one were presented to him. But when John has emptied the can into the saucepan and left it to simmer, Sherlock watches the red liquid in the pan and is forced into another memory he’d rather not have. In Serbia, just after that hateful cell, and Mycroft is rubbing his back as Sherlock spits and spits and spits blood into a bowl of water. Punches to the face had split the inside of his cheek, punches to the gut had possibly damaged his insides and Mycroft looked grim as he held back his younger brother’s over-long hair and waited for the coughing to pass. 

Sherlock blinks. It is just tomato soup. In a pan. In Baker Street. And John is stirring it and whistling to himself as he does sometimes when his guard is down. Sherlock’s grip on the wall has become vicelike. He loosens it as much as he can, tries to concentrate on the present, re-bolting the doors in his mind palace. 

The soup actually looks quite good. The smell that fills the kitchen is warm and pleasant. A scent of home. Sherlock is not quite prepared to say that he is hungry yet, but give it another minute or two and he might be. 

~

Sherlock cannot figure out why the spoon clangs against the bowl, or why the soup spills down his front until John places his hands over Sherlock’s. Sherlock hadn’t known he was shaking. John sees the way confusion creases Sherlock’s forehead and lowers both their hands to Sherlock’s lap again.  
“You’ve been shaking on and off since I got here,” he states. “Your body is going to be exhausted when you stop, you know.” 

“You say that like I can help it.”

“I never said that. I know you can’t.” John takes a kitchen towel from the counter top and dabs at the spilt soup on Sherlock’s dressing gown. Sherlock lets himself be cleaned up as best as possible. When he is done, it is John who picks up the spoon again, batting away Sherlock’s trembling hands. 

“I’ll do it.”

This, Sherlock cannot let go without protest. 

“I’m not an invalid, John.” 

“Once again, Sherlock, I never said that you were. But I’d like to minimize the mess you feeding yourself seems to incur right now.” 

John brings the soup to his own lips and tastes the first mouthful, making sure it’s not too hot, before he feeds Sherlock. John refills the spoon, brings it to Sherlock’s lips and lets him take the spoon into his mouth. The soup slips easily down Sherlock’s throat, warming him from the inside. They repeat the action several times in silence.

“I wish you’d have phoned me,” Says John. He pauses to wipe soup from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth before taking up the spoon again. “I’d have come straight back if I knew you were ill.”

“You were with Harry.”

“Harry’s a big girl. She’d have understood.” John bumps Sherlock’s foot with his own, affectionately. “She can take care of herself.”

“I can take care of myself-” starts Sherlock, indignant, but John cuts him off by slipping the spoon into his open mouth. Sherlock glares at him but swallows obediently. Normally he would argue more but over the last few days he’s proven that looking after himself is something that he isn’t as capable of as he once thought. 

~  
He waits for John to leave. Sherlock cannot remember the last time he and John were alone together for so long, without anyone else present, and without the pressure of a case. Probably not since they lived together. Sherlock waits for John’s phone to ring – Mary calling him home – or for him to start glancing at the clock and making comments about how late it has gotten. But he doesn’t. He feeds Sherlock carefully, at a pace that must be frustratingly slow for him, but he does it all without once looking at his watch, or checking his phone. 

He clears away Sherlock’s empty soup bowl and starts looking for something for himself, with no suggestion of going home to eat. Crap food and takeaways are a normal part of life at Baker Street, one that Sherlock had been sure that John – doctor and now married man that he is – would protest against now. Instead he just goes through the cupboards and settles on beans on toast with stale bread as through that is a perfectly reasonable choice for an adult to make.

“Student food,” he declares, with a grin.

While he eats, he tells Sherlock about his weekend. Sherlock is so glad of his presence that he doesn’t once tell John how domestic and dull he is being. Instead he nods to show he is listening, comments in the right places and laughs in others. A nasty voice inside Sherlock’s brain is telling him that he is showing off, trying to show John that he can be a good boy, an attentive friend. He might as well be on his knees begging John to stay; he’ll grovel in the gutter if it just means John ill stay a little longer. Sherlock tells that voice, which sounds worryingly like Mary, to piss off.

Just once John tries to prompt Sherlock to talk about his own weekend. He asks if he did anything after he and Mary parted, if he heard from Lestrade at all. Clearly he thinks this is a case gone wrong. Sherlock says, truthfully that he hadn’t heard from anyone all weekend. John changes tact, asking what he got up to with Mary after John left. But that’s a non starter. The mention of it sends Sherlock into the dark whirlpool at the centre of his brain. He wished John would stop using her name. It’s only when Sherlock shuts down completely and refuses to say anything more or even look at John that he lets that thread of conversation drop. 

“She’s not really mad at you,” he adds, just before he changes subject. 

Poor, oblivious John, Sherlock thinks. This is one area he is very, very wrong in. 

He is right in a great many other areas though. Sherlock’s inevitable exhaustion, for one. It comes over him in a wave while John is getting the freshly laundered sheets from the machine. Maybe it is the smell of fabric softener, a strangely comforting, gently floral, scent, as John transfers them to the dryer. Sherlock never bothers to use softener himself, wouldn’t even know what cupboard to find it in, but John remembers. Even after all this time, he remembers. 

Sherlock fights his tiredness so fiercely he knows he is frowning. He does not want to succumb because that means sleep, and sleep means nightmares but, more importantly than that, it means waking up tomorrow to an empty flat, just a series of rooms with a hole roughly the size and shape of an ex-army doctor at their centre once more. 

He stifles a yawn but John sees it anyway. He smiles fondly at Sherlock.

“Looks like it might be time for bed.”

Sherlock nearly says ‘I’m not tired’, but doesn’t. As much as he doesn’t want John to leave, he also doesn’t want the evening to end with John telling him to stop being childish. And that would be childish. And stupid. Especially as he yawns again, so widely that his jaw clicks. 

John goes to make up the bed with fresh sheets. Sherlock lasts less than ten seconds sat at the table before trailing after him. He’s not really scared John will disappear anymore but he doesn’t want to be apart from him all the same. He’s probably annoying John, scampering about after him like an over familiar shadow. 

Sherlock waits in the doorway as John finishes making the bed, then stands awkwardly at the foot. John moves his arms a little, stiffly, not sure what to do with them now he’s completed yet another task.

“I’ll help you in the bath properly tomorrow,” he says eventually. “And I’ll go out and buy some proper food, and get you some strong pain killers. You know, for your ribs.” John frowns. “I probably should have done that already, shouldn’t I? I’ve not exactly been a great doctor, have I?”

Sherlock laughs. He can’t help it. That is probably the stupidest suggestion he has ever heard.

“John. You have been a highly competent, excellent doctor. As ever.” He hadn’t really meant to say that last part. It reeks of the over sentimental, even if it is true. 

John has maybe gone slightly pinker than usual, but that could just be a trick of the light. He clears his throat and half gestures at the bed once more.

“Right, well I’ll just, umm...” he trails into silence. So, thinks Sherlock. He can’t say ‘leave’, even though that is exactly what he will be doing. And that really is a petty thought.

“Thank you for coming over,” says Sherlock, to save them both the awkwardness of the moment. “If you do come round after work tomorrow, I could probably do with those pain killers then.” John just frowns at him again, confused.

“I’m not going to work tomorrow, Sherlock.”

“Oh? I thought you were on full shifts all week.” Part of Sherlock wants to keep John talking, keep him there for just a little while longer, even if it is just to discuss his work plans.

“Yeah, I was, but I’m not going anymore. I’ll phone in sick. And I won’t be coming round tomorrow,” it’s like an unexpected knife to Sherlock’s already damaged ribs, “Because I’m not intending on going anywhere. I’m staying here.” 

Now it is Sherlock’s turn to be confused. 

“I was just about to say I’ll go make up the bed in my old room.” John shakes his head and chuckles lightly. “Did you think I was just going to leave you alone again?” 

“Yes.” 

“You are an idiot, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Before Sherlock can stop him, John crosses the distance between them and pulls Sherlock into a hug. It feels like coming home all over again. John squeezes him perhaps a little tighter than he has done before.

“You’ve gone all shivery again,” he tells Sherlock. “You get into bed, I’ll go see what painkillers we’ve got.” 

Sherlock does as he’s told, but not before stopping by the bathroom while John is still searching for medicine in the kitchen draw. Sherlock wants his bladder to completely empty. He is determined to not have another accident tonight, especially not now John is going to be in the same building.

~

The buzzing of Sherlock’s phone is what wakes him in the morning, but he doesn’t check it straight away. He has far more important things on his mind, like the fact that someone is in his bed. Not just anyone; John. John Watson is in his bed. John’s face in profile is the first thing Sherlock sees. There is a pillow between the two of them, to keep a safe distance even when asleep, but Sherlock can still feel the warmth of John’s body so close to his. John rolls onto his side so that he’s facing Sherlock and opens his eyes as though sensing Sherlock is awake.

“Morning,” Says John, his voice a little groggy from sleep. 

“Morning,” replies Sherlock, because clearly John doesn’t seem to think there is anything wrong or strange about this situation. His throat still feels raw. He turns his face away from John and coughs into his hand several times before resting down again. “I thought you were going to go upstairs...to your old room.”

“There was a change of plan.” John wriggles into a more upright position to talk properly. Sherlock can’t say he is pleased with this; he had rather liked resting his head on a pillow so close to John’s. “I got to bed and...I was barely there ten minutes when you started screaming.” 

This is news to Sherlock. He doesn’t remember any of this.

“You were having a nightmare,” John explains, watching the pattern the sunlight is making against the wall. “Even when you woke up a bit, you didn’t calm down until I spoke to you. I tried to leave but you started having another nightmare and it seemed like we’d both get a better night’s sleep if I was closer to you, so I didn’t have to keep going back to my room then back to you each time.”

Sherlock shivers and this time it has nothing to do with the temperature. He’d known he’d had bad dreams last night – there was scarcely a night when he went without them – but he doesn’t remember John waking him up, or speaking to him. Another worrying ink blot over his memory. 

Sherlock’s latest nightmare had been about Serbia. Or at least it had started out that way. At some point he had looked up from the floor and the guard beating him had turned into Angel. He’d cried out in his dream then, and looked to the chair where Mycroft had sat, hoping he would help. But the figure had leant back in their chair, watching, and instead of Mycroft hidden beneath that disguise, it was Mary.

John’s still watching the wall, not looking at Sherlock.

“Did I...Did I say anything? Last night, when I was dreaming?” Sherlock asks, his real questions remaining unspoken. Had he said a word that John would recognise? Had he said a _name_? 

John shakes his head.

“No. You just screamed bloody murder every time I got more than a few feet away from you.” 

Sherlock isn’t sure if he should be relieved or disappointed but he cringes to hear the further trouble he had put John to. “I’m sorry.”

John finally looks back at Sherlock. He looks kindly at him, doesn’t look at all resentful for a broken night’s sleep. “Don’t be. I didn’t mind, honestly. I was just worried about you. I am worried about you.” 

Sherlock looks up at John. Contrary to what John says, it is not just any friend who would do what John had done over the last twenty four hours. John has never just been ‘any’ friend to Sherlock. Maybe this is, partly, because Sherlock himself is not normal, and John has had to adapt. He’s pretty sure most friendships don’t involve quite so much life threatening danger as his and John’s. But Sherlock is also sure that it would not be just anyone who put themselves into said danger for a friend. Sherlock has frequently been told he is not worth the trouble he causes and that may or may not be true, but there is definitely something special about John for thinking he is worth it, even if he is wrong. 

Sherlock knows he has been staring at John for far too long now. He should find something, anything to do other than keep gazing at him. This is not usual behaviour for friends either. But then, John is still looking at Sherlock too. The seconds tick on.

Tentatively, John reaches out and places a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock thinks he is checking for fever again but instead John slowly strokes Sherlock’s forehead, his thumb at Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock doesn’t dare move.

And then, Sherlock’s mobile buzzes again, so suddenly that they both jump. The moment is gone. John takes his hand away, shaking his head.

“Answer that, will you?” he says, nudging Sherlock. “It’s starting to get irritating.” 

Sherlock scrambles up, once more in the same position as John. His phone is right where he left it on the bedside table, still plugged in to charge from when he left the flat on Friday. Sherlock flicks through the missed messages, starting with the oldest first. There’s actually a couple from John, sent over the weekend. One from Lestrade with a case – barely a five on the Consulting Detective Scale Of Interest. Several emails. Then he gets to today’s messages. He has no fewer than ten messages sent to him this morning, and all of them are from Mary. 

_Tell John to come back home._

_Do it, Sherlock. You can manage fine on your own._

_Do you think you’re being clever? Do you think ignoring me will make me go away?_

_Answer me. I trained you better than this._

_Bad pets get punished, Sherlock._

It gets worse, each message charting her progressively mounting anger. The phone vibrates again, making Sherlock jump worse than before, his muscles tense. This latest text consists of only two words.

_Just wait._

Sherlock puts the phone down. He tries every trick he can remember to calm down. Remember all of the bones in the human body. Concentrate on breathing. Mentally recite all the elements of the periodic table. Lock it all in a box and shove it to the back of his mind palace. That last is the one that has proved most effective in the past but he’s jolted out of it this time before he can effectively seal the door.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks, taking a few moments to register his own name being called. John is still there, still watching him. John is waiting, Sherlock realises, for the answer to a question he didn’t hear. 

“I said, who is it?” John repeats, being far more patient than he usually would at being ignored by his friend.

“L-Lestrade.” Sherlock mumbles, picking the first name that comes to his head.

“Tell him you’re not going.” John frowns, looking remarkably stern for someone still with their hair ruffled by sleep.

“Hmm?”

“You need to rest, not go running all over London. Your ribs need to heal and I still want to have a proper look at some of those bruises. So tell Lestrade you’re not taking any cases, no matter how interesting. And I don’t care how dull I am being.” John smirks, anticipating what Sherlock’s usual reply would have been. “I’m not adverse to using force to keep you here for your own good. It’s been a while but I think I can still remember at least twelve ways to pin a human down without hurting them.” 

John is joking, Sherlock knows that. He means it to be light-hearted, playful threat. But the thought of being held down, even by John, even if it really was for his own good, sends ice into Sherlock’s stomach. 

Sherlock forces himself to roll his eyes and nod.

“It wasn’t that interesting anyway.”

“Good.” John kicks his legs out of bed and gets up, revealing himself to only be wearing his pants. Sherlock at least has the decency to blush. “Now wait here. I’ll go run that bath.”

Sherlock waits. It is taking John an unnecessarily long amount of time to do such a simple task. All the time that he is alone, that open box in Sherlock’s mind palace continues to leak. He doesn’t know why this is such a problem, why, after all this, it is those messages from Mary that are bothering him. She has said far worse to him before. She has threatened far worse, done far worse. Sherlock had known he would be in trouble after that little display last night, so it shouldn’t come as any great shock. And yet it is that door he cannot shut. 

Once, Sherlock had been so good at dealing with what was bad and troubling.

Having to give up the best things that had ever happened to you? Returning after years to your best friend’s anger when you had been tortured just days ago? That was fine. 

Watching said friend get married, and start to slowly drift away from you? These things happened. Making a fuss wouldn’t help.

Being shot by that same friend’s wife? Having to see her every day? Having to answer to her every depraved, degrading whim? Perfectly manageable.

But a few, silly little lines of text on a screen smaller than his hand? Too much. 

The phone starts to buzz again. It goes on this time, a rhythmic vibration and that sets Sherlock’s teeth on edge. A phone call that Sherlock leaves unanswered. 

Sherlock’s reaches a hand to the back of his thigh, finding the place where Angel’s needles had penetrated him. His digs his fingers in, hoping the pain will distract him and keep him focussed until John gets back.

~

The bathroom is only a few steps from Sherlock’s bedroom but he finds he cannot manage to walk there unaided. John has to wrap an arm around his waist and half carry him there. He doesn’t ask why Sherlock has gotten do much worse than he was last night, or even earlier this morning. He just guides Sherlock gently, puts down the lid of the toilet and lets Sherlock rest there while he finishes getting the bath ready. 

John has put on yesterday’s jeans but has not bothered with a shirt; possibly because he anticipates getting Sherlock bathed will involve him getting wet a fair amount too. But it allows Sherlock to take in the set of John’s muscles, the way his shoulders hunch as he reaches over to turn off the tap. John’s old injury seems to be bothering him today. Sherlock can see it in the way he tenses, the way he favours his other arm. 

Guilt tugs at Sherlock. He is being selfish. John shouldn’t have to worry about him, shouldn’t be acting as nurse maid to him – feeding him, cleaning him, changing his clothes when he makes a mess of them. Mary has said, frequently, that Sherlock is being a burden, dragging John down with him. She may well be right about that. 

The starburst pattern on John’s shoulder is livid and Sherlock stares at it without meaning to. At least it gives him a steady point to focus his eye line on. John’s years old scar keeps Sherlock’s many new ones company.

John tests the temperature of the bath with his elbow. It is the method used by parents to test a baby’s bathwater and John does it subconsciously. Sherlock can just picture John reading up on what it would require to be a good parent. Perhaps articles read from his laptop with Mary at his side. Maybe they had spoken about starting a family of their own. Maybe John was already making plans. That was a possibility Sherlock had not considered but the thought of it made him so sick he was glad he had not eaten yet. Mary carrying, giving birth to, John’s baby. Nothing would tie her to him more strongly. Another innocent life brought into this mess.

The dressing to the back of Sherlock’s leg is already loose from his scratching at it but John doesn’t say a word as he peels it away. He is so gentle as he helps Sherlock into the bath, pausing when Sherlock winces, concerned when Sherlock starts with pain as the movement stretches his ribs. 

Thick, black tar is oozing through every room in Sherlock’s mind palace. The shower gel John massages into Sherlock’s shoulders just reminds him that no amount of soaping or scrubbing will ever wipe it away.

John shampoos Sherlock’s dark curls and tips water from a jug to rinse it so that Sherlock doesn’t have to dunk his head beneath the water. He is already drowning where he sits.

Sherlock cannot let this continue. He has known for a long time now that this would only end one of two ways. He would tell John, or Mary will kill Sherlock. Statistically, those are the two ways that abuse ends: the victim (and Sherlock does not like to think of himself as a victim but if he is not that then what is he) speaks out, or they end up as another murder victim, another case needing solving. There is no use in thinking Mary might get bored, or feel remorse and change her ways. But it is not himself that Sherlock is thinking of. He doesn’t care what happens to him. 

He cannot let this continue for John’s sake. He had for so long gone along with this with John’s wellbeing in mind. John will not take well to his wife’s betrayal. He will not want his family, his life ripped apart when he has believed it to be perfect. For him to be told it is not so, that all the times he thought Mary was loving him, she was spitting in his face...

Sherlock will lose John. He knows that. John will not want to be around Sherlock, the very person to shatter the lie he has been living. He would serve as a constant reminder of what Mary had done. John will be angry at him, for not speaking up sooner, for letting it get this far. But he would have been just as angry if Sherlock had told him at the start. Sherlock had known all along he was just prolonging the inevitable, gaining only a little while long with John. _Selfish._

Either way, Sherlock cannot do right for doing wrong.

Several times while John is soaping up Sherlock’s arms, or gently cleaning one of his wounds, Sherlock tries to speak. He opens his mouth with the words on the tip of his tongue but all that leaves him is a sigh. He finds he does not know where to start. With the hospital, he supposes, after he had been shot. He could start at the beginning, when he had opened his eyes to Mary leaning over him, telling him he wasn’t going to tell John, in that high, almost songlike voice. 

Or perhaps he could start at the end, with the unanswered messages, and the phone that was probably still ringing in the other room. 

“Come on,” says John, helping Sherlock to his feet in the tub. Sherlock hadn’t registered the water growing tepid around him. 

John wraps a towel around Sherlock and dries him down, keeping his hands at a respectful distance from Sherlock’s most intimate areas. Ever the considerate gentleman. 

He’s fetched fresh pyjamas for Sherlock to change and holds them for Sherlock to step into. All the time Sherlock is talking to himself in his head, holding the conversation he will have to have with an endless parade of John’s. John heartbroken. John devastated. John angry, furious, all that rage pouring out at Sherlock. Sherlock will take it all. 

John leads the silent Sherlock through to the living room and sets about starting a fire in the grate. He doesn’t want Sherlock to catch a chill, with his body still damp, hair still dripping onto the towel over his shoulders. Once, Sherlock gets as far as saying John’s name, quietly, and John turns around. 

“Yes?”

But Sherlock just opens and shuts his mouth once more, then shakes his head. John comes back over to the sofa, and he is the one who starts talking.

“I know something’s wrong. I’m not stupid. I knew something was wrong the minute I walked through that door and saw you lying in bed like that. You can tell me, Sherlock. Whatever it is, you can tell me. Come on,” he tries to lighten his tone, “you’re never this shy about speaking your mind.” John waits but, once he realises he’s not going to get an answer he just sits and then gestures for Sherlock to sit on the floor in front of him. Sherlock does so. This is probably the last time he will be this close to John, he might as well get as close as possible. 

He leans back against John’s legs as the older man gathers up the towel from Sherlock’s shoulders and begins to rub his hair dry. 

All those years ago, after he had fallen into that frozen pond, Sherlock had sat just like this, in front of a fire, whilst someone towelled his hair. Mycroft, maybe, or possibly his mum or dad. He hadn’t remembered that until now. He’d felt very much loved, and warm, and safe.

It is that newly risen memory, that sense of security, no matter how false it may be, that finally finds Sherlock’s voice.

And he starts to talk.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! I so badly wanted to have this up before Christmas, and then before new year...but I figured you'd rather have a better written chapter a few days later, than a rushed one. Consider this a belated present to you all.

It takes Sherlock a while to get going. Several times he falters, stops, and starts over again after only getting a few words in. John is waiting, still massaging Sherlock’s head with the towel. He squeezes lightly, silently prompting Sherlock to carry on. Sherlock clears his throat and begins again. Suddenly he can’t stop. The words come pouring out, like blood from an open wound; a trickle at first and then a flood. 

Sherlock so badly wanted this to be controlled. He was going to maintain some dignity and tell John straight, not reduce to babbling incoherence. Nothing has worked out how Sherlock planned.

The story Sherlock weaves is not making much sense, even to him. He’s jumping back and forth, from one point to another. In one breath, he is talking about Angel, and the tattoo studio, and the way being bound had made him think of Serbia. The next he is going back several months again, talking about some text or email Mary had sent him. He’s leaving gaping holes in his story. Sometimes it is deliberate; there are some things John does not need to know, should never have to hear. Some things Sherlock tries to say, but can’t. 

The first time is something Sherlock is vague on. He’s not sure he can even pinpoint when the first time was. Mary shooting him was something John was already abundantly aware of – no point in going over old ground. And anyway, that was different. Several feet apart, separated by space, and clothes is different. The cold metal of the gun and bullet was so very different from Mary pressing herself against Sherlock, her skin against his, her teeth on his flesh, her nails drawing blood. The hospital afterward had been the first sign maybe, but perhaps that was only in retrospect. She hadn’t touched him then, after all. There still wasn’t any real hint of what she had planned.

Did Mary even have a plan? Was any of this thought out at all? Or was it all just on a whim, seeing how far she could push it? If so, then Sherlock had played right into her hands. 

Even the first time she had called Sherlock round to her house had been subtle. She hadn’t threatened him, or coerced him. She’d just asked him to come over, and he’d gone because, well, why wouldn’t he? Sherlock didn’t trust Mary by that point, would never have trusted her again, but he trusted John’s judgment – if John wanted Mary to be a part of his life, and Sherlock’s life too by proxy, then Sherlock would accept that. He says this to John, but then thinks perhaps that was a mistake. Maybe it sounds too much like an accusation, as though he is blaming John for all of this. 

One thing Sherlock keeps repeating over and over. When Mary did first touch him, that day as they sat on the sofa and her hand had crept to the back of his neck, and then how she’d slowly leant over and pressed her mouth right over his ceratoid artery.

She must have been able to feel the pulse quicken in surprise as she’d whispered, not unpleasantly, “Take off your shirt, Sherlock.”

Sherlock had misread Mary at first. He had told her, far more calmly than he had felt at the time, that he wasn’t interested. He didn’t see Mary that way and, even if he did, he wouldn’t act on it, because she was John’s wife. And John was Sherlock’s best friend. What about John, he had asked, trying to appeal to a sense of reason he had still believed Mary possessed. 

She’d just smiled at him and shook her head. 

“This isn’t about John,” she had said. “At least, not how you think.” And then she had repeated, “Take off your shirt.” 

And Sherlock had still said no. He had pushed her away, still gently, and gotten up. That point is one he keeps repeating that over and over to John. He wants to make it clear that he had not just gone along with this. He had fought. He had tried to leave. Even when Mary had said “I’m not asking.” 

Mary must have planned what she said next, at least. It was a well rehearsed speech, a monologue of all the ways in which she outranked Sherlock. How she could so easily cut Sherlock from John’s life. It was a process already half started. Sherlock was not the most important person in John’s life. He no longer saw him every day, could no longer be expected to follow on every case Sherlock took. Sherlock could lie half conscious in a drugs den for days as part of a ‘case’, and John didn’t even know. It wouldn’t take much pulling from Mary to drive them even further apart. 

“You won’t tell him. Will you? Because that would hurt him. Remember how long it took him to get over my last little secret?” 

Being shot by Mary hadn’t felt like a little secret. And neither did this.

John doesn’t say anything through all of this. Sherlock is pretty sure John doesn’t even understand what it is he’s hearing at first. If he turned around, Sherlock would see that puzzled frown upon John’s face as he tried to put the pieces together. Then Sherlock says Mary’s name again. And again. He realises he might not even have been saying her name to begin with – an unconscious, completely ridiculous block that his brain had created. Now he is aware he fights against it, says Mary’s name over and over. 

The more Sherlock says it, the more it is sinking in for John that it is his Mary. His wife. Not some other woman who shares her name – which isn’t even her real name – and who has somehow worked this power over Sherlock. 

John’s hands still, and then drop back onto his own thighs. 

Eventually Sherlock falls silent, his words run dry. He is breathing hard. 

Sherlock pulls the towel from his head and holds it in his lap. He works it through his hands, binding and then unbinding his wrists repeatedly. 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is intrusively loud in the quiet flat. He clears his throat too, just how Sherlock had. Now he does not know where to start. “Will you look at me?”

Sherlock hesitates, but turns to face him. He can’t look at John’s face, does not want to know what he will find there. He settles for looking somewhere in the region of John’s chest. His gaze rests on the point where John’s heart would be without meaning to. 

“Sherlock,” says John again. “You’re saying... Mary did all this?” 

Sherlock nods, still all out of words. 

John gets to his feet suddenly, and Sherlock has to shuffle out of the way to give him room to stand. John just stands there for a moment, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“Mary,” he whispers. No other intelligible words come to him. He steps past Sherlock and walks in a daze to the fire, stares into the flames for a moment, as though he might find an answer there. Sherlock moves to take John’s place on the sofa. The seat is still warm from John’s body heat.

John turns from the fire and looks at Sherlock. His expression is still clouded with confusion, with not understanding. Sherlock hates this. John looks so fragile in that moment, far more so than Sherlock has ever known him. When they had first met, John had limped into the lab at Bart’s, appearing to everyone the war torn soldier, but even then there had been an edge of steel, of rock hard sureness within him that Sherlock could not miss. 

It had been a matter of months later when John had a bomb strapped to his chest. That would have been enough to push most over the edge. But John had stayed calm enough to see an opportunity, to give Sherlock the chance to run. And afterwards he had, albeit weakly, managed to laugh at some stupid joke about what other people might think.

Sherlock would prefer John to be angry, shouting, throwing things. That was what he had anticipated. 

But John just looks lost. 

John starts to walk back towards Sherlock, but stops half way across the room. He turns on his heel, take a few steps towards the fireplace, then stops again. He is breathing deeply, and when he speaks his voice is ragged, as though he has ran a marathon, not just walked a few steps.

“Are you... sure about this, Sherlock?” 

It is certainly not the question Sherlock had been expecting. He nods, once, before remembering that obviously, John can’t see him.

“Of course.”

John looks at Sherlock over his shoulder. He is clenching and unclenching his right hand as though grabbing at an invisible safety line. It is an unconscious habit Sherlock has seen John exhibit so many times before. He wonders if it is a throwback to army days, reaching for the handle of a gun that is no longer there. 

“I know,” John says slowly, very, very carefully, like walking across a mine field. “I know that you don’t trust her. She shot you, so that’s understandable. Maybe you don’t even like her and that’s fine too... I know, seeing her must be hard for you, it must bring back memories and, you said yourself, you’ve had a flashback...” John closes his eyes, rests his head in his hands. “Are you sure you’re not just getting confused? Mixing up a hallucination with reality? Delusions can feel very real, they can-”

“I am not making this up,” Sherlock says, hoping that the burning in his eyes will go away. “I am not insane.” Privately, he thinks that maybe he is, just not in the way John thinks. “And I’m not confused. Not about this.”

“Jesus Christ!” John turns abruptly, finally facing Sherlock properly again. At last, there is that anger Sherlock had been expecting. “Do you have any idea what it is that you are asking me to believe?”

Sherlock nods again. 

“I need to think,” says John abruptly. “I have to just... think for a bit.” He starts towards the door but stops again. Sherlock wonders if he will complete any action at all today. “No. You’re still hurt. I need to look after you.”

“I am fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“I wouldn’t lie about this.” Sherlock can feel the tears he has been fighting back slip out now. John sighs.

“You’re lying about being fine. You’ve got broken ribs. Your body is covered in bruises. Someone did this to you and you’re saying it’s Mary. None of this is fine. You need someone here, or... God, I need to be able to just think.”

John walks down the corridor and disappears into Sherlock’s bedroom. Less than a minute later he’s back, still tugging his coat onto his shoulders. 

“Here,” he says, handing Sherlock’s phone to him. Confused though he is, Sherlock takes it automatically. John’s hands are shaking worse than his as their fingertips touch. “Keep it with you. Phone an ambulance if you need to. Or Mrs Hudson; she’s only down stairs. Or phone me if you need to I just... I can’t be here right now.”

“I will.” 

Sherlock is still trying to think of something, anything else to say, as John leaves the flat. Mrs Hudson calls after John downstairs, but he either doesn’t answer, or Sherlock doesn’t hear it. He does hear the front door slam so hard the frame cracks, and Mrs Hudson’s responding cry of, “Well, honestly!” 

All of Sherlock’s energy leaves with John. He curls himself up on the sofa, hugging his arms around his chest, as though staunching the flow of blood from a phantom wound. Mrs Hudson’s footsteps are on the stairs, undoubtedly her this time, coming to ask Sherlock what he has done to upset John this time. Sherlock turns towards the back of the sofa. This is not his preferred position of late. It leaves him too vulnerable, unable to keep an eye on the door, the window, unable to assess the threat in the room. But it serves a purpose. 

Mrs Hudson cannot see Sherlock’s face, easy to imagine Sherlock is merely glowering or pouting back there. She asks him what is wrong and then tuts loudly when she gets no response. 

“Don’t sulk now, Sherlock,” she says. “I do wish you would try not to upset John so much. It’s always my house that takes the brunt when you two have a tiff. Slamming about, or smashing things, or shooting the wall for heaven’s sake!” But she does give his arm what is clearly meant to be a reassuring pat. She misses the way he winces. “He’ll be back, dear. He always is.” 

Mrs Hudson is very easily underestimated, a lot smarter than people give her credit for, and right about most things, really. Sherlock does not have the heart to tell her that this time she is wrong.

When she leaves, Sherlock lingers on the sofa, turning back around to watch the fire slowly die. Several times he starts to get up, with a half formed idea of following John, before he realises he has no idea where to start looking. He knows all John’s usual haunts, of course, but this is not usual. John will be sure to not go to any place that Sherlock can find him. 

The phone has stopped vibrating, at least. For now it has fallen silent. Sherlock realises that he never even showed John the messages. He loads one up, ready to forward it on, but then stops. What good would that do? He tucks the phone out of sight beneath his body. The square shape digs into him through the flimsy cotton of his dressing gown, a constant reminder of its presence, and John’s parting words to Sherlock.

He could phone John. John would pick up instantly, even if he is still angry, still so mad he can’t see straight. But Sherlock does not do that either. He has blown apart John’s life more effectively than any missile. The least he can do now is leave it alone. 

Sherlock falls asleep some time later, still thinking of John.

~

At first, Sherlock thinks he is still dreaming, or at least, remembering. 

He is back in hospital and Mary is leaning over him, the scent of her perfume heavy and suffocating. It was the last thing he smelt, mixed with gunshot and blood before he passed out, the first thing he smells, mixed with antiseptic and bleach, now that he is awake.

And then Sherlock feels Mary’s nails dig fiercely into his thigh and he is suddenly wide awake. 

Sherlock is not in a hospital at all. He is still in Baker Street, still on the sofa. Hours must have passed because now the sky outside is pitch black, the streetlights outside and the feebly glowing fire the only illumination in the room. All of this Sherlock barely even notices, because Mary is standing over him. 

Her face is inches from Sherlock’s. Even in the gloom, Sherlock can make out the savage gleam in her eye, the snarl of her mouth. 

“What,” she hisses, between clenched teeth, “the _fuck_ , are you playing at? You told him, _you fucking told him_.” 

Mary’s hand lashes out, the pain of the slap registering before Sherlock even sees the movement. Sherlock is already off balance and Mary is still fully alert, even in her anger.

“You told him, after everything. How many times have I warned you, huh? How many?!” She strikes him again, and this time her wedding ring catches at his cheek.

Blood trickles down Sherlock’s face as Mary’s hands find his neck. He nails dig in like thorns, like he is being strangled with barbed wire. The pressure on Sherlock’s wind pipe increases and finally panicked adrenaline kicks in. He scrambles backwards on the sofa, away from Mary. One hand pushes against her, trying to dislodge her hands or knock her off balance while Sherlock’s other hand scrabbles for the phone. It searches futilely on the sofa, between the cushions, even grasping over the floor as Mary pushes him lower. 

“I never should have left you alone with him,” Mary growls. “Clearly I’ve been letting your chain get far too long.” 

She lets go of Sherlock’s throat with a brutal jerk that sends his head slamming backwards against the cushions. Sherlock gasps for breath as Mary gets on top of him. At last he can feel the phone against the small of his back and he shifts, trying to reach it one handed, trying to remember any number he can ring blind without looking. 

Mary gets low over him, matching her body flush against his. Her hands cup his face this time, bruising marks no doubt appearing along his chin.

“What were you thinking, slut?” She hisses into his face. “What on earth possessed you tell him after all that I’ve said?”

“I couldn’t... ” Sherlock gasps, his voice broken from the constriction of his throat. He can still feel Mary’s hands there. He takes as deeper breath as he can manage, trying not to gag on Mary’s perfume, the scent of her shampoo, the fresh peppermint of her toothpaste. “I couldn’t let this carry on.” 

Mary laughs.

“Poor pet, was I being too rough on you?” She strokes Sherlock’s cheek with the back of her hand. She swipes over his cut with one finger then trails it down to his own mouth, forcing him to taste the metallic tang as he talks again.

“ ‘s not me I’m worried about,” He says, trying to speak clearly, to not let Mary degrade him any further. “It’s John. You...behind his back, all this time when he thought you’d changed.”

Mary laughs again. The sound is among Sherlock’s most hated in the world.

“But I thought you understood, pet. This was all for John. You being my little punching bag so I never had to take it out on him, you being my perfect little toy to keep me occupied, keeping all of this a secret because you know it would just kill John.” She shrugs. “I guess you just didn’t care about him enough after all.” 

Mary kisses his cheek before sitting up. She keeps one knee either side of Sherlock’s abdomen, digging in to already cracked ribs. “I suppose you think it’s over now?” She asks. “You think you’ve won?” Sherlock was not aware this was something anyone could ‘win’. It has never felt like a game to him. Mary presses on. “You think that I’ll leave you and John in peace?” Sherlock nods at this, no point in lying. Bitter triumph at last begins to course through him. If Mary is this angry, this livid, it is because John has confronted her, has repeated Sherlock’s garbled story to her. He is surprised to see Mary is still smiling. “Poor, deluded, Sherlock. You still think he believes you over me.” 

This time, Sherlock does see Mary raise her hand, fist clenched. He braces himself, determined not to cry out, but when the blow lands he almost does out of pure shock. Mary doesn’t hit him. She punches herself in the face with nearly her full force. 

Mary hisses for a moment, rubbing at her jaw where her fist landed, before drawing back and punching herself again. This time she aims for near her right eye. 

“W-what are you doing?” Sherlock yelps, unable to believe what he’s witnessing. Mary makes her eyes go wide, her smile dropping into a shocked mask of pain and sadness.

“I-it was so scary, John,” she whimpers, voice trembling. “I tr-tried to fight him off, but he was so...so strong. And he just started hitting me! No, you mustn’t be angry, John. I don’t think he really knew what he was doing. I think he was having a flashback because I was screaming for him to stop but it was like he didn’t even hear me. And I was so scared, John!” She breaks off in a faltering little sob, bringing hands up to her face before dropping them back down to smile at Sherlock. “It’s pretty good, right?”

Of course, it is more than good; it’s believable. Mary is a perfect actress after all. She has lived a made up life for years and, even after being found out, she could still make the world think she had changed. She could make John think she had changed. Mary Watson is a lie so well told that even Sherlock might have believed it. 

Mary is getting to her feet. She starts to smooth her clothes down, but then stops, obviously deciding the ruffled look adds to her act. 

“I’ll still pop round some times, after Johns tops seeing you. Don’t worry, I can’t imagine he’ll report you even after this.” She taps her cheek, winces slightly. It’s already starting to bruise. “I should probably film it when he does confront you about it though. I can imagine I’m going to want to keep reliving that.”

She turns to go.

And Sherlock actually laughs. 

It’s a high, hysterical noise that doesn’t sound like him at all. Mary looks at him as though he has, at long last, gone completely mad. Sherlock’s grip is, for once, steady as he holds up the phone. 

He holds it high so that Mary can see the screen, and, as she stalks back across the room, John’s name. An open call, running for several minutes, from when Sherlock reached under himself. 

The colour in Mary’s face changes from pink to a nasty grey. It is not a good look for her, a stark contrast to the marks her punches have left. She looks temporarily ill and aged. The realisation of what Sherlock has done is just beginning to sink in. If this is something that one can ‘win’, then Sherlock is the one who has done so. 

Even if John hasn’t picked up, even if that call has gone straight to his voice mail, he’ll hear it. Everything that has gone on, every word Mary has said to Sherlock. 

Steadily, Mary is turning practically scarlet as she snatches for the phone. Sherlock has been expecting that and he lets his grip go loose – he doesn’t want to risk broken fingers by not letting go. For several seconds Mary just stares at the phone. A dozen emotions flicker across her face. Rage, panic, and perhaps even sadness. Maybe some small, still human, part of her really will be grieved at loosing John. But it is not that side that she shows.

It is her anger that comes out in a wordless scream, as she hurls the phone against the wall. Sherlock supposes he should be grateful Mary didn’t throw it at his head. The screen cracks and the paintwork of the wall scratches; another damage for Mrs Hudson to fret over. Not that Sherlock can really worry about that now. 

“You bastard!” Mary has found words at last. Her voice has gone high and frantic, panic-stricken, and it would be funny to hear that composure cracked, if it wasn’t so bloody terrifying. “You stupid slut!” 

When Mary hits Sherlock, there is no holding back. She throws herself at him with the ferocity of a caged animal finally let free. She continues to shout as she hits him, but exactly what names she is calling Sherlock, he doesn’t hear. 

A couple of months’ back, Mary grew her fingernails long – specifically for Sherlock’s benefit, as she was fond of telling him. Now she claws at his face and neck, catches his lip, and again Sherlock can taste blood. 

This time, Sherlock does respond. He is not completely useless, even now. He has a pretty comprehensive understanding of self defence, of several branches of martial arts too, but that has never been the issue. He has never fought back against Mary before because she has had something more than strength and skill against him. Now Sherlock is weak but he still does his best. He manages to get to get to his feet and hold both of Mary’s arms. She swipes one foot at his legs to trip him, but Sherlock holds the distance between them. 

“Go on,” Mary snarls, still struggling. “Aren’t you going to fight back? Hit me?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“No.”

“No?” Mary laughs. “You really are pathetic. Even now?” She spits at him and still Sherlock doesn’t respond. “Punch me. Hit me. Just once, I would love to see you do that. You know you want to.” 

Sherlock is surprised to find that no, he doesn’t want to hit Mary. He should, by rights, want to see her hurt more than anything and now would be the perfect opportunity. A small part of him is telling Sherlock that yes, he should do exactly what Mary says, use this golden opportunity to get some kind of revenge. But much more than that, he just wants her gone, where he never has to see her or be near her or touch her again. 

A lack of response just angers Mary more. She twists sharply and manages to get her right arm free. She has clearly been studying Angel’s method because it is a punch that she lands, directly to Sherlock’s temple, and it sends his mind spinning, his body stumbling backwards. He maybe even blacks out for a second, because he is suddenly on his knees in the middle of the room, where their fighting has led them, and Mary has a strong grip on his hair.

“I thought I made it clear, pet,” she is saying. “You make things bad for me, and I can make it ten times worse for you. And you’ve just ruined a lot for me.” Sherlock tries to stand, to at least get on the same level as Mary again, but she just tightens her hold. She yanks Sherlock’s head downwards and kneels too as she does so, forcing Sherlock’s face against the floor. “I’m going to have to leave John,” she continues, “leave everything I’ve built up here. But guess what, pet?” 

Slowly, languidly, Mary crouches low over Sherlock and licks a trail from his collar bone, along his exposed neck to just below his ear. “You’re going to be coming with me,” she whispers. 

It’s like being plunged into that icy pond all over again. Sherlock struggles, a little, but the position he is in doesn’t allow for much of that. He finds that, once more, his limbs will not obey him. They have become useless weights that do nothing at all to help.

“You think I’d give up something so fun?” Mary asks, nuzzling against his neck in a mimicry of fondness. “No, no. If I have to leave, I’m taking my pet with me.”

Sherlock’s head is still reeling. He could almost kid himself into thinking he’s misheard Mary over all the ringing in his skull. Or else that Mary is bluffing, trying to make him scared and desperate one last time. What she is suggesting should not be possible. But Sherlock doubts there is very little that Mary can’t do, even normally. And now she’s crazed, and wild, and Sherlock is weak and dull.

“We both know I can,” Says Mary, voicing Sherlock’s very thoughts. “You won’t even fight me back, as we’ve already established.” It is not a case of ‘won’t’ anymore. He would hit Mary, now, if it meant getting away, if his body would work in more than useless twitches. 

Mary trails the hand not wrapped in Sherlock’s hair to his throat, right over where her collar usually sits against his skin. “And if I have to disappear completely for a while, I can always get Angel to babysit you. She is such a fun little addition to our games, isn’t she?” Sherlock shakes his head, trying to get free, or to simply disagree with what Mary is saying, he is not sure which. Neither is something he has ever been capable of doing effectively, least of all now. He is gripped with the mad urge to beg, to plead with Mary, to promise anything so long as she doesn’t take him to Angel again. 

But why would Mary listen? Sherlock doesn’t have anything to offer that she can’t just take, that she hasn’t already taken. 

Mary continues, regardless. “Angel is so very accommodating, and so easily swayed by pretty things. Even when they’re already broken. She’ll help, so long as she gets a loan of you every now and then. She’ll pin you down for me, spread those pretty legs of yours open for me. Maybe I’ll even get her to slip some of your favourite distraction into your veins, if you’re good.” Mary presses tender kisses over the long ago sites where Sherlock would inject himself, just so there’s no confusion about her meaning. “Maybe this is a good thing. There’ll be no more waiting around for you to come when I call, you’ll just be there waiting for me whenever I want. We’re going to have so much fun, you and me.”

She stands, hauling Sherlock to his feet. And Sherlock tries, he really does. He moves his leg just as Mary is standing. It catches the back of her knees and makes her stumble, loosens her grip, and that is all the opportunity Sherlock needs to bring his knee up sharply into Mary’s groin. 

Sherlock feels vile, cheapened for resorting to such a move, but, as he keeps reminding himself, Mary would gladly do the same to Sherlock, if she had the opportunity. It is perhaps not as effective as it would have been if his attacker was male, but, given Mary’s grunt of pain and the way she releases Sherlock, doubles over, it hurts her badly enough. 

Sherlock knows he should use this opportunity to run, or call for help, or really anything other than just stand there, still so close to Mary. He does try to yell, but all that leaves him is a hoarse croak. He stumbles backwards a few steps but his limbs have turned to vapour, useless and outside of his control.

He hesitates, just for a moment, just to catch his breath, but that moment is all it takes. 

Mary’s hand is back on his wrist. She grips his arm, at least partly for support, as she steadies herself. Sherlock grips her wrist back, trying to break the point of contact. Her eyes have narrowed, her face contorted into something quite ugly with its malevolence. 

“So,” she says, spitting out the syllable like poison. “You like playing rough, do you Sherlock?” 

First rule of any fight; use your opponent’s strength against them. That is exactly what Mary has done from the start. Now, she swings herself around, using the grip Sherlock has on her wrist to spin him too before letting go, sending Sherlock crashing into the mantelpiece. 

Something in the grate dislodges and the fire sparks and flames a little higher. Pain surges across Sherlock’s side as it takes most of the impact, the agony of his cracked ribs made fresh. He’s not sure if he screams or not. Maybe it all just stays inside. 

Still, it is not this pain that sends him to the floor once more. It is not the blow to the back of his head that follows. Mary is still recovering herself, and Sherlock could probably withstand that alone, or at least get back up again. But his forehead catches the mantle on his way down. The whole room narrows, sound and vision temporarily blocked, until Sherlock is left with just that point on his temple. 

Moments pass, perhaps a full minute and Sherlock cannot make sense of his surroundings. He has to rely on the basic input he is given. He can taste ash and warmed brick, his face against the hearth, feel the heat of the fire on one side of his aching head. He cannot miss it though when Mary pins him again. She puts one knee into his chest this time, over the spot where her bullet had once pierced him. Damaged nerves are singing in protest, one more agony to add to the ever growing list. 

“That wasn’t very nice, now was it?” Asks Mary. “I thought I told you to behave properly.” 

Sherlock tries to talk, to scream for help, but only one word comes to him. The most important word in the whole world. “John...”

“Aww,” Mary coos, petting at the open wound on Sherlock’s head. “John’s not here, sweetie, and he’s not going to be, either.” Sherlock is aware of her reaching sideways. There’s a metallic clatter as she knocks something over, reaching whatever it is she wants. Sherlock tries to tilt his head sideways to see what it is Mary is doing, but red flashes across his vision, and he’s not sure if it’s blood, or an optical illusion caused by hitting his head. Either way, he tries not to move after that. 

“Clearly my collar isn’t enough for you, pet,” says Mary as she settles back into her position. “I think, that you need a little reminder of who you belong to. Something permanent. The question is, where?” Sherlock still does not understand, even as Mary begins to look him up and down. “Your chest is pretty full up with scars already,” she adds a little more pressure to her knee for emphasis, “but I’m sure there’s room for one more. Or how about here,” she reaches down and strokes one finger along Sherlock’s inner thigh. He reflexively tries to close the gap between his legs. “I could dig my fingers into it whenever we fuck, and you’d feel it every time you walk. Or maybe... here.” Finally she brings her hand back to his face, over one high cheekbone. “Right here, where everyone can see it. Where you can see it every time you look in a mirror. And I’ll make you look, whenever you’re forgetting who is in charge here.”

A horrible realisation is dawning on Sherlock. He is starting to get some inkling of what Mary is talking about as she reaches towards the fire again. A dull clang as she removes the poker from the fire, and then he can smell the heated metal. 

“I’d stay still if I were you, pet. You don’t want me to mess this up.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. Other people do that, in times of fear, and he has always thought it stupid – far better to keep your eye on the danger at hand. But Mary’s smirking face as she burns Sherlock’s flesh is not something he wishes to see. He has tried struggling and that got him nowhere. Fighting has just made things worse. His thought, as he waits for the pain to come, is that at least John will know now. John will, at least, be free of Mary’s deception, even if Sherlock is never free again. 

Sherlock waits. The pressure from his chest vanishes. Mary getting a better angle. But still there is no pain. Sherlock has been burned before and he has a pretty clear memory of what it feels like. Simply feeling ‘nothing’ is not really a part of that expectation. 

There is a loud clank of metal on brick, so sudden, and so close that Sherlock jumps despite himself and, against his better judgment, opens his eyes. 

What he sees is so unexpected that Sherlock briefly wonders if he has blacked out and this is another delusion brought on by fear and his desperate longing for escape that is likely to never come. He blinks and the scene does not go away. He struggles to sit up and his vision blurs but comes back into focus on the same sight as before. 

John has Mary pinned against the fireplace. One hand is at her neck, the other on her wrist, twisting steadily. The poker is lying on the grate, dropped from the hand that John now seems intent on crushing.

“Can you get up?” John asks, calmly, and without taking his eyes from Mary’s face. It takes Sherlock a moment to realise that John is, obviously, talking to him. He tries once more to get up, manages to sit, but doesn’t get any further than that. John still doesn’t look away from Mary as he continues to address Sherlock. “It’s okay, don’t force yourself. I’ll help you in a minute.” The knuckles of his left hand go white as he steadily tightens his grip on Mary’s wrist.

“J-John...” Mary had teased Sherlock for calling for John, but now she echoes him, tentatively. “I...” 

“I really wouldn’t talk to me right now.” Still John uses that careful, measured tone, not shouting, or angry. 

_This_ , Sherlock thinks, _must be what he was like in a war zone._

Mary doesn’t know when to not push her luck.

“You...you don’t understand,” she starts, but again she is stopped before she can tell John exactly what he doesn’t understand. The noise Mary’s wrist makes as John breaks it is audible even to Sherlock. 

John does it smoothly, just one clean movement of his hand, like snapping on the clasp of a watch. Mary gasps but doesn’t scream. Sherlock has to remind himself that she is a trained killer; of course she can stop herself from showing pain when she needs to 

“Do not insult my intelligence.” John’s calm facade cracks, just slightly. A bite of anger sneaks into his tone. “I may not be as brilliantly minded as you or Sherlock, but I am not stupid.” 

At the mention of Sherlock’s name, Mary turns to look at him, almost as if she had forgotten he was there. Instinctively, Sherlock backs up under her gaze. He shuffles backwards until he finds the wall with one outstretched hand. At least it gives him something solid to lean against. Mary turns back to John.

“You believe him, over me?” 

“You know, I honestly didn’t know what to believe until I answered that phone call.” John laughs, humorlessly. “I must have been a pretty bad friend because Sherlock knew that’s what it would take.” 

When Sherlock regains the ability to talk, he will tell John how wrong he is. He has been nothing but a wonderful friend to Sherlock. 

“He’s a liar!” Mary screeches, suddenly. “He lied to you. He let you think he was dead for two years!”

John slams Mary’s broken wrist against the wall and traps it there. 

“ _You_ do not call _anyone_ a liar. Sherlock kept me safe for those two years, which is more than what I’ve been doing for him.” John takes a deep, shuddering breath to calm himself and loosens his grip on Mary’s hand fractionally. “I should kill you,” he says. “I should break everything you’ve ever touched him with.” 

This time Mary doesn’t answer. John killed for Sherlock the first day they ever knew each other. Neither Sherlock nor Mary would put it past him to do it again right now. But instead, he lets Mary go and takes a step back. He still remains between her and Sherlock. His muscles are tense, ready to grab Mary again just as quickly if he needs to. 

“There’s only one reason why I don’t kill you, and that’s Sherlock. I’m not going to do anything that might mean I have to go away from him. So don’t kid yourself that this is for you. But I have got some advice for you, Mrs Watson.” John actually smiles, just a little. “Start running. Because I’m not the only one who’s going to hear about this, and I can’t imagine I’m going to be the only one who wants to get their hands on you. Other secrets are probably going to come out too, people finding out who you really are. So that’s a whole lot of angry people after you.”

Mary doesn’t move. She gapes at John, holding her broken wrist with her other hand. “You can’t,” she whispers. John just smiles again. 

“I’d start now, if I were you. Because you’re not going to get much of a head start. Especially not when certain members of Sherlock’s family get involved.” 

Sherlock expects Mary to say more. He expects her to shout, scream. He’s ready for her to attack John, attack him. But he’s not quite so scared of that. Whatever Mary does, John is there to, and he’s by Sherlock’s side. 

But there are no parting shots from Mary. There is panic again in her eyes, John’s words taking hold, as she gives one final glance at the two of them. Then she slowly edges her way around John. He turns with her, keeping her in his sight all the way. Mary trips on the way to the door but she catches herself before she hits the ground and keeps on moving, out into the hallway, without even looking back again. 

There is one last bang of the front door, not even as loud as when John left that morning. 

Just like that, she is gone, like a bad dream broken, like the villain at the end of a fairytale, who crumbles into dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! I hope you can stick around for it soon.
> 
> Kudos and comments are love!


	6. Chapter 6

John takes Sherlock to the hospital nearly as soon as Mary has left. He wants to phone for an ambulance but Sherlock protests vehemently. He can walk. He can stay conscious the required eighteen, twenty minutes that it will take to get to the hospital by taxi. He does not want to be poked and prodded and interrogated by any more strangers than is strictly necessary. There will be plenty enough of that later as it is. Sherlock would say no to going to the hospital altogether, but he knows John will just keep insisting, and worrying, and Sherlock figures he can do this much for John at least. 

John still worries. He frets over Sherlock every step of the way, supporting him towards the door, nearly carrying him down the stairs. They are both so intent on the task in hand, in making sure Sherlock continues to place one foot in front of the other, that they nearly bump right into Mrs Hudson.

“Sherlock!” she cries out when she sees the state of him. She’s standing on the foot of the stairs, clearly about to come up and see them just as John and Sherlock were coming down. “I heard shouting and Mary leaving just now, but...what on earth happened? You haven’t been fighting again, have you?” 

Sherlock can’t imagine what she means by ‘again’. But then he remembers after his return, after he went to surprise John at the restaurant and came back to Baker Street later, needing to clean blood from his face and hold ice to his bruises. 

“No, Mrs Hudson,” says John, “we have not been fighting, but I do need to take Sherlock to hospital now.” 

Wonderful, reliable John. He can be trusted to get them out of here. Sherlock feels partly bad for how much he wants that right now. He loves Mrs Hudson, truly, and later he will gladly apologise for his rudeness in not replying to her, in ignoring her completely as they pass, and for the damaged floor upstairs. He just can’t stand any more pity right now. Worse, if she starts caring for him, tending to him, maybe even scolding him, insisting he take better care of himself, he might just break. 

Luckily, it doesn’t take any more prompting from John to get her to move. She steps to one side to let them past and follows them. She even helps to flag down a taxi for them. When the driver makes a comment about how Sherlock had better not bleed in his car, she gives him such a filthy look that the poor man doesn’t dare say another word. 

Mrs Hudson only asks them once more, gently, what’s wrong. 

“Is this because of a case? Is that why Mary was so upset, because you didn’t take her or John along to help?”

Sherlock wishes she would stop saying Mary’s name. 

As the taxi pulls away, Mrs Hudson still watching anxiously after them, Sherlock muses that at least she won’t keep it up for long. It won’t be long now before Mrs Hudson knows, before everyone knows. 

The ride to the hospital is hellish, the time there even more so. The whole thing is only made bearable by John’s presence. He remains at Sherlock’s side constantly, arguing with the doctors who suggest he should remain outside while they examine Sherlock. He helps Sherlock out of his shirt and helps him to sit, to lie down, to follow the doctor’s requests.

It is certainly not through lack of attentiveness, but Sherlock gets the impression John would rather not be there. Or at least, he would rather turn his back and not be seeing this. He is considerably paler than is normal for his complexion, and keeps looking away every time he catches sight of Sherlock’s injuries, or every time a nurse prods at one of his wounds. John should be used to this. He is a doctor, has both treated and sustained far worse injuries than the ones Sherlock is currently sporting. It is his job. But then, Sherlock thinks about how he would feel if it was John’s corpse he was examining, if it was John’s murder he was trying to deduce by the hair on his shirt and the mud on his shoes. He doubts he would be the perfect picture of composure then either. 

“You don’t have to be here,” he tells John, even though the idea of having to endure this without him turns Sherlock’s stomach. “I’m sure I can manage just fine on my own.” 

John laughs, the first positive sound Sherlock has heard in what feels like days. “You’re an idiot, Sherlock,” says John, “if you think I am going anywhere without you right now.” He pauses and reaches out one hand, as though he might touch Sherlock’s face but then thinks better of it when he again sees the fresh cut on Sherlock’s forehead. “I wish you weren’t always so bloody brave. You can break down. It’s what most people would do in this situation.”

Sherlock wants to say he isn’t being brave. He’s never felt less brave in his life. He is hunched over protectively, breathing hard, eyes darting about the room to try and take it all in. He has to fight panic every time a woman with short blonde hair walks past. When one of the nurses squeezes his shoulder in what is clearly meant to be a reassuring way, Sherlock yelps out loud. 

“Don’t do that,” John snaps, instantly. The woman blushes and drops her hand back as though burnt. She starts to say how she hadn’t meant to startle Sherlock and John nods, but doesn’t smile. 

Sherlock also wants to tell John that he wouldn’t mind if he did touch his face.

John stays by Sherlock’s side regardless of how uncomfortable it makes him. He doesn’t let his focus drop from Sherlock for even a minute. He stands watch like a sentry. 

A doctor comes to check Sherlock’s head injury. He shines a light into Sherlock’s eyes, gets him to watch the end of a pencil as he moves it from side to side which does actually make Sherlock a little dizzy. The doctor asks endless irritating questions – “What’s your name? How old are you? Do you know where you are?” – and Sherlock answers them all without once announcing how tedious this all is. If John was his normal self, he would make a comment to Sherlock about this. He would note the amount of restraint it must be taking for Sherlock not to tell the doctor to piss off. Or else, he would make a joke about how it’s a good thing the doctor didn’t ask him a primary school question about the solar system. 

Sherlock knows that he is being checked for concussion, memory loss, perhaps a fractured skull. He also knows, although he is clearly not fine, that he will live. 

It is only while Sherlock is lying back, a nurse stitching his wound closed, that Sherlock spots John texting on his phone. He wonders who John will contact first – Lestrade or Mycroft. Lestrade would be Sherlock’s first choice but he knows John will probably think differently. 

Sherlock is taken for a full scan of his ribs and John has to wait in the corridor. Sherlock does not approve of this one bit. Being separated from John was not part of the deal when he agreed to come here. If he can’t be alone with John and John does not want to leave then at the very least he wants, needs, to be with John. Sherlock tries to sweet talk the nurses and, when that fails, he insists that a little second hand radiation never hurt anyone. Neither ploy gets him more than amused laughter that he knows isn’t meant to be patronising, but he still finds it to be so. 

As a last ditch attempt, he looks to John, pleadingly. For his part, John doesn’t look overly thrilled with the thought of being separated from Sherlock either but, doctor that he is, he does his best to convince Sherlock otherwise.

“I’ll be right outside the door, Sherlock,” he promises, trying to pin a reassuring smile onto his own face. He can’t manage it yet. “It’ll only be for a few minutes.” 

The follow up question of whether Sherlock can manage for a few minutes is implied, but not spoken. Sherlock only agrees when he remembers yet again how distracted John is. It will at least give John the break from Sherlock’s presence that he needs. 

Keeping still for the scan shouldn’t be hard, but as soon as Sherlock lies down and a female voice tells him to keep just like that, it suddenly becomes the hardest thing on earth to do. Sherlock shakes so badly they have to take the scan twice.

When he is eventually allowed back out of the room again, Sherlock finds John pacing the far end of the corridor. He has his phone pressed to his ear and is talking fast and low but as soon as he sees Sherlock approaching he hangs up and slips the phone back away without telling Sherlock what the call was about. 

Sherlock hopes that Mycroft will at least have the decency to not turn up at the hospital. He does not desire for Mycroft to be here while he is in this state. 

~

By all accounts, Sherlock is told he has been very lucky. His ribs, although indeed cracked, are not so badly broken as to require surgery. His lungs have not been punctured. Four stitches seal up his head wound. The doctor wants to keep him in over night as a precaution but that is where Sherlock draws the line. He cannot bear another second longer in this place, certainly not a night spent in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by strangers. 

“I live with a doctor,” he tells them, firmly. “He is more than capable of keeping an eye on me.” 

It is not until later that Sherlock remembers that he does not live with a doctor anymore. He has not lived with anyone for a long time now.

None the less, John does not correct him. That’s not to say he is happy with Sherlock being discharged. He keeps watching Sherlock, starting every time Sherlock looks like he might be stumbling. For his own part, John is trying to mask the fact he is limping slightly. He is overcompensating, keeping his leg regimentally straight to stop it from buckling beneath him. 

As they’re making their way back through the hospital waiting room, a prescription for extra strength painkillers clutched in his hand, that Sherlock finally understands what – apart from the obvious – is bothering John. 

“You didn’t like the way they examined me.” 

John had been watching Sherlock again, but hastily looks away once he knows he is being observed. 

“I never said that.” 

“No but it’s true. You keep looking at my head. As I was being discharged you went to say something three times but then stopped yourself.”

They have nearly reached the exit. The automatic doors slide open but John stops just short of them. He rests one hand against the wall for support, trying to make it look like he is just casually leaning there. 

“Is it the stitches?” Sherlock asks. “You think you could have done them neater? Because I agree that you could probably have done equally well at home without coming here. I tried to tell you that in the first place.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says John, with what could almost be considered a laugh. “I didn’t have any proper equipment, and you needed looking over properly. Besides,” John gives up all pretence and leans fully against the wall, letting out a weary sigh, “they did a far better job than the mess I would have made. I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. And they did it just fine. It’s just...” John’s eyes rake Sherlock’s body. They scan over him more thoroughly than any x-ray. Whether or not John is aware of it, his gaze keeps settling on areas of injuries Sherlock had recounted that morning. They were places where Mary had scratched and bitten and gripped until she left bruises. 

“Oh,” says Sherlock, getting it at last. “You think they should have checked me over more. You think they should have given me a thorough examination.” 

John slumps against the wall. He is thinking back to all the past months, not just the few last hours “Well, shouldn’t they have done?”

“No,” Sherlock says, firmly. He represses a shudder at the thought of what a ‘thorough examination’ would entail, of the places it would mean being touched in and looked at. 

“You said this has been going for... months. All those times that she...attacked you.” 

“Exactly. She’s too smart to leave any lasting injuries.” 

John looks like he still might disagree, like he might want to at some point question Sherlock’s definition of the term ‘lasting’ injuries, but he can see how uncomfortable this is making Sherlock. He lets it slide with a mumbled, “All right, then.” 

The doors try to slide shut but open again as Sherlock and John continue to stand in the entrance. A patient with what looks like a broken ankle tuts audibly and a passing nurse glares at them. 

“Come on.” John pushes himself away from the wall.

They’ve barely made it outside though when Sherlock groans so loudly John looks at him with alarm. Sherlock merely gestures towards the taxi rank. There, at the head of a row of London cabs complete with significantly disgruntled looking drivers, is a familiar sleek black car. The question of who John phoned first is answered. 

“What do you expect?” John asks as they make their way towards the waiting vehicle. “He’s your brother. And if anyone needs to know about this, it’s him.”

It comes a surprise to both of them to find the back seat empty. Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea or Alicia, the woman who changes names as frequently as she does her clothes, is not there. More surprisingly, neither is Mycroft himself. 

“And that,” Sherlock assures John as the doctor slips into the seat beside him and closes the door, “Is the truest form of restraint you are ever likely to see from Mycroft. It must be killing him.”

If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would swear John giggles at that.

~

They return to find that the living room of 221B has been cleaned in their absence. The door handle to the living room has been freshly wiped clear of the blooded handprints that Sherlock had left behind. The fireplace has been tidied. A rug has been moved to cover the damaged part of the floor. 

Mrs Hudson may claim she is not Sherlock’s house keeper, but she has clearly made an exception tonight. 

It is already very late (early hours of the morning in fact, going by John’s watch) but John makes no mention of leaving Sherlock to it. He does not hint at going back to his own place. Once he’s gotten Sherlock settled in bed, he doesn’t even make an attempt of sleeping in his old bed upstairs. He pulls back the other half of the covers and, when Sherlock doesn’t protest, slips in beside him.

Apparently, people are making concessions all over the place. 

~

“They’re going to ask what happened, where she’s gone.” 

Both Sherlock and John have been having similar thoughts, but it’s Sherlock who voices them, carefully, over dinner the night after the hospital. John looks up from his plate – they have at least progressed from soup and beans – and runs his tongue over his lips without speaking. Sensing the hesitation, Sherlock is quick to add, “We could always lie, make something up, if you don’t want everyone to know. I know it’s hard; she’s your wife.” 

John just looks saddened and Sherlock wonders briefly if he should have said nothing at all. But then John says, “It’s not my secret to keep, Sherlock. If you want to tell people, then of course we can.”

There are, of course, certain details that they will leave out. Sherlock will die, just simply die, if anyone other than John learns of some of the things Mary did to him. 

They decide to start with Mrs Hudson. She has already been up twice, once with cake and once with no other reason than she wanted to check on Sherlock and mother over him. She hadn’t asked, but they both knew she was wondering. She is also the last person on earth who would judge Sherlock. 

Sherlock can’t, even then. He tries, spends half the night awake going over what he will say, how he will say it, and then in the morning he tells John he feels too ill to do it. He expects John to be frustrated with him, or tell him to just get it over with. Instead he makes Sherlock tea and, after asking three times if it is okay, goes to tell Mrs Hudson alone. 

John spends nearly two hours downstairs talking to her. Sherlock spends that time alternating between lying draped over the sofa like a blanket, and pacing the floor, waiting for John to return. He hears Mrs Hudson crying through the floor. 

Lestrade visits a couple of days later. It is the closest Sherlock has ever seen him come to truly losing control. His anger bubbles beneath the surface as they (mostly John, again) recount the story once more. When they are done, Lestrade swears creatively for several minutes. He looks like he wants to crush something in his fist. Sherlock swiftly moves his favourite mug off the table just in case Greg decides he needs to throw something. 

“I don’t know why John let her go,” he says to Sherlock later, when he’s calmed down somewhat. “I wouldn’t have arrested him. I’d have helped him finish the job and burn the body afterwards.” 

Sherlock has to stop himself from hugging him.

~

Sherlock had always considered himself to be a quick healer. It was something he prided himself on. He knows, medically speaking, that you cannot train your body to heal any faster than anyone else’s. At most, all you can do is increase your threshold for pain by endurance or build your immunity to certain illnesses and substances. Sherlock has, he knows, probably just been luckily up until now. Not that lucky is a word most would put together with Sherlock’s name, given recent events.

Even so, this is one area that Sherlock’s body has not let him down with. Not until now, when it matters the most. 

Sherlock wouldn’t care at all. He can cope with pain. It’s not like he was planning on chasing down any master criminals just at this moment in time, so it doesn’t matter if he can’t make it across the living room without wincing. Sherlock finds that, in a perverse way, he doesn’t mind the feel of the stitches across his forehead. The contrast in texture, raised medical thread compared with smooth skin, is fascinating and would perhaps warrant further investigation under other circumstances. Counting the stitches again and again helps to sooth Sherlock’s mind when his thoughts begin to wonder.

It is John’s reaction to his injuries that bothers Sherlock. John is plagued by them. 

He sees Sherlock limping across the living room, and he has to look away. He sees Sherlock touching his head and he moans or, one time, lets out a dry sob. 

Maybe if Sherlock healed faster, and the visible damage was gone, John wouldn’t keep looking at Sherlock like he’s broken. Maybe John wouldn’t feel the need to keep saying “I’m sorry, Sherlock” for no apparent reason. 

~

John eventually has to return to his house – the home he had once shared with Mary. When he first suggests it Sherlock goes quiet and resigned, sure that John intends to move out once more, as he had been anticipating from the start. John has to spend a good ten minutes assuring Sherlock he just needs to collect some of his belongings and that he is completely out of clean clothes. He tries to say he will be fine going alone, that Sherlock should just stay home and rest, but Sherlock goes with him anyway.

Sherlock has no desire to return to the place that had been the stage for so many of his most humiliating moments. The spectre of Mary will be everywhere within that house. But, equally, he is not about to let John go alone to somewhere where the real Mary could so possibly still be waiting.

Sherlock never even makes it past the hallway in the end. His breathing speeds up and his knees turn weak as he tries to follow John further. He remains by the coat hooks as John moves hurriedly from room to room, throwing clothes and personal items into a suitcase. 

On his way out John knocks a framed photograph of Mary on their weeding day onto the floor. The expression on John’s face as he stamps on it with the heel of his shoe made the journey worth it for Sherlock.

~

Despite the car at the hospital it is a full two weeks before Mycroft himself makes an appearance.

John is at the supermarket. Sherlock is, despite himself, asleep on the sofa again. He wakes quickly, aware of someone else in the flat. He can hear them breathing, shifting slightly. The night that Mary stood over him in this exact spot replays, sending adrenaline coursing through Sherlock’s body as he opens one eye to assess the situation. For the first time in a long while he is soothed by his brother’s presence. All the same, he still feigns sleep to delay this a little while longer. 

Mycroft is sat in what little sofa space is not currently occupied by Sherlock’s body. He is looking at something on his phone, his finger occasionally sliding across the screen. He doesn’t glance up as he speaks, making Sherlock jump.

“Sherlock Holmes, I grew up in the same house as you; I know when you are pretending to sleep.” Mycroft places the phone to one side and turns to face Sherlock fully, waiting for Sherlock to grumble and sit himself up. 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock is not about to throw himself at Mycroft and say that he is in fact glad to see him, even if it is true. 

Mycroft does not answer straight away and Sherlock takes in his appearance properly. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and maybe it is the contrast that makes the rest of him look so pale. He is thinner than Sherlock remembers him being when he saw him last. 

“My baby brother has been hurt,” Mycroft says eventually. “Of course I am here.” 

“Don’t say that,” Sherlock groans in mild disgust.

“Say what, precisely?” Asks Mycroft, through a smirk which at least lifts some of the fresh lines from his face. 

“I am not a baby, Mycroft.” 

“There are many who would disagree, dear brother. But the point still stands,” Mycroft’s expression softens as he relents from his teasing and rests one hand lightly on Sherlock’s bare foot. “Of course I was going to be here.” 

Sherlock stealthily moves his foot back and tucks it underneath himself – he still does not like someone else’s skin against his own – even at the same time as he is telling himself to get a grip. It is a hand on his foot, it is not going to hurt him, and this is _Mycroft_ , for God’s sake. Sherlock is so frustrated at himself that he settles instead for sniping at his brother. “It’s been two weeks.” 

“Yes, I am aware that a visit is long overdue,” Mycroft concedes. “For that, and for so much more, I will never be done apologising to you. You and I both know that I have a far above average grasp of English, along with being fluent in many other languages, and there is not a word for how bad I feel.” 

Sherlock never knows quite how to respond when Mycroft goes like this with him. Affection is not their usual forte. Neither is apologising of any sort. And this is too much by far. Sherlock is so shocked that he just gapes at his brother. He is aware that he looks quite idiotic, and in ordinary circumstances Mycroft would tell him so. Instead, Mycroft continues to talk as though he hasn’t realised the effect his words have on his brother. 

“I want you to know, that I have not been idle in these two weeks. A certain Mary Watson, now possibly working under a different alias, has been upgraded to the highest level for persons of interest whom the British government wish to apprehend. She is a trained killer, known to be dangerous and,” he pauses to take a breath, “she is also someone I personally would like to speak to.” 

Sherlock nods as he takes this in. It is not exactly unexpected news.

“We have a large number of people looking for her,” Mycroft continues. “We have CCTV footage and mobile phone records being studied. We have checked hospital records looking for anyone matching her description seeking treatment for a broken wrist in London two weeks ago.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Sherlock cuts in. “She’ll be long gone by now.”

“Maybe for now. But I can assure that it is only a matter of time.” 

Sherlock wants to ask how his brother can be so sure, but that smirk has returned to Mycroft’s face. It is decidedly less teasing than before. He would be wrong to ever doubt Mycroft’s ability to track down Mary. 

“Oh yes,” says Mycroft, as though suddenly remembering something important. He picks up his phone from the arm of the sofa. “I also have something for you to see which you might find interesting.” 

Sherlock takes the phone as Mycroft offers it to him. He is expecting details of a case, something low key and mind numbingly obvious, just to get him working again. He is still considering whether or not he will take such a case and so it takes him a few moments to realise what it is that he is looking at. Then suddenly Sherlock is no longer aware of the rest of the room, or of Mycroft, or even of the phone he is holding. He can only see the picture on the screen.

Angel is barely recognizable. If Mycroft has lost weight in the last two weeks, Angel has become a gaunt skeleton. She stares at the camera without seeing it, her expression glazed over, possibly in part due to the blood pooling beneath one eye. Her face is covered with a mask of bruises, from yellowy green to almost black in places. Cuts litter her skin and one in particular, swollen and raised across her cheekbone, looks to be infected. There is something wrong with the angle of her chin and Sherlock realises her jaw is dislocated. 

Sherlock has absolutely no idea why Mycroft thinks he wants to see this. 

Hastily, he tries to get rid of the picture, to hand the phone back to his brother, but Mycroft doesn’t take it. In his panic, Sherlock presses the wrong button and he is suddenly greeted with a whole gallery of photos. 

A close up of Angel’s eye, the socket broken. 

Her mouth forced open to show that two of her teeth have been knocked out. 

What looks like a burn on her upper arm. 

Sherlock closes his eyes but he can still see those images. He is screaming so loud he can’t hear what Mycroft is saying as he places his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. If it is meant to be a comfort, it has the opposite effect. Sherlock flails out, trying to knock his older brother away and when that doesn’t work, he curls in on himself, putting his hands up to his head, as though that can stop the thoughts reverberating in his skull. 

John’s voice is the first thing he is fully aware of – loud and angry and so clear, right there next to Sherlock.

“What the actual fuck, Mycroft?” John is yelling. “What did you do? I said you should talk to him not... whatever the hell you’ve done. What the hell did you _say_ to him?” 

Mycroft guides a still irate John a few feet away from Sherlock as he tries to explain. Sherlock catches the odd word and he doesn’t like one bit of it.

“I don’t care,” he hears John say, still enraged. “You need to leave,” and when the elder Holmes doesn’t do as he says, “Get out, Mycroft!” 

Sherlock does not hear Mycroft leave but he must do, because John is beside him again, whispering slowly now. 

“Sherlock, can you hear me? It’s just me, just John. Mycroft’s gone now. Nobody is going to hurt you. You are safe, it’s just you and me here.” He continues to talk in that low, soothing voice. His words run together, not even making any sense a lot of the time, sometimes just making soft shushing sounds. It is exactly the same way he calmed Sherlock down once before, virtually the same words being spoken. The familiarity of it helps. 

Eventually Sherlock opens his eyes.

John is knelt beside the sofa at Sherlock’s level. His hands are clasped in his lap and although they twitch with the desire to reach out and touch Sherlock, he keeps them to himself for now. 

“Hello,” he says, gently, noticing Sherlock looking at him. “Are you back with me?”

Sherlock is not aware that he went anywhere but he nods all the same. John sighs with relief. 

“Can I do anything to help?” he asks. 

Sherlock nods, then shakes his head. Then finally he just shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits. 

“That’s all right. Not knowing if fine, it’s normal.”

“Not for me.” Sherlock forces himself to talk because he is sure that if he doesn’t he may never find his voice again. He hasn’t shaken this badly in days. He knows he needs to ask this next question, even though it is going to hurt John. “Can you move?”

“Move?” John looks at him blankly.

“Sit down, maybe?” 

John hesitantly gets to his feet and just having him stand above him makes Sherlock feel sick. He supposes asking John to crawl would be one step too far. John goes to sit on the sofa, taking up Mycroft’s recently vacated place, but Sherlock shakes his head. 

“No, not there. It’s... too close.” 

John instantly jumps back up again, trying to keep his pained expression hidden from Sherlock. Sherlock’s gut twists as he watches John walk over to their arm chairs. John moves towards his usual chair, disappearing from Sherlock’s sight line, but again Sherlock stops him.

“Not there either. I...I still need to be able to see you.” 

Still more cautiously, John moves towards Sherlock’s chair. He glances at Sherlock for approval and, seeing him nod, finally sits down. Sherlock sags with relief. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, so quietly he’s not even sure if John hears it from across the room. They both stay quiet for a long time. Sherlock tries to get his breathing levelled out. At first, John watches him closely but after a while he reaches out slowly, keeping his hands where Sherlock can see them, and picks up the discarded newspaper from the floor. He reads, and Sherlock breathes. 

Sherlock does not know why he is so affected. It is not the gore or the blood that unsettles him. He has seen both in abundance enough to be desensitized. He briefly considers what it would be like if he could never see an injured body again, if this kept him from cases and crime scenes and hospitals. The thought is so terrifying that Sherlock forces himself to conjure up all the most gruesome murders he has attended. They turn his stomach no more than usual. Those marked, nameless strangers do not bother him. 

Does that make him a bad person, that he only cares because it’s someone he’s met? 

He certainly does not feel sorry for Angel. Maybe he should. Maybe he should be angry at Mycroft for treating another human being that way (of course it is unlikely that Mycroft himself got involved personally; he wouldn’t want to get the blood stains on his suit). But he still cannot bring himself to feel anything other than revulsion, hatred, towards the woman. Even fear, if he is being brutally honest with himself. 

One question keeps surfacing in Sherlock’s mind: If this is what Mycroft does to Angel, who only ever touched Sherlock once, then what on earth is he going to do to Mary? 

It is distance, Sherlock realises at last. It is distance that makes him okay with the bodies he examines on a mortuary slab, or the cold pavement, or on the bed where they fell. This is all just too close to him. 

John turns another page of his paper and Sherlock looks over at him. He has given Sherlock space. He has given him time. He has given Sherlock privacy by turning away when Sherlock needs it and still the vigilance of not leaving him alone. 

“I’m sorry,” says Sherlock, making sure he is loud enough to be heard this time.

John looks up from his paper. “What for?” 

Sherlock looks at John from the corner of his eye. “I’m being really, really unreasonable, aren’t I?”

“So?” John neatly folds the paper and places it back on the floor. He leans forwards, resting his hands on his knees. “Sherlock, if anyone has the right to be unreasonable, it’s you.” 

“That’s not what you normally say.”

“That’s not what I say when you’re being unreasonable by playing your violin at three in the morning just because you’re bored. This,” John gestures between himself and Sherlock, indicating the distance between them, “is fine.”

Eventually, Sherlock lets John back on the sofa beside him. Later still he edges closer, until he is pressed against John’s side. He has to nudge John in the ribs more than once but eventually he gets the point and puts his arms around Sherlock and holds him close. 

~

Sometimes it is like that. Sometimes Sherlock cannot bear to be touched by anyone at all, even John. He needs space and quiet and something solid beneath him to stop him from falling. But those times will grow less frequent.

Far more often, Sherlock wants John close. John is safety, and security and comfort. Even on his darkest days, John is what brightens him. It has always been that way. Even long before Mary. 

John is home. 

And if it took all of that, everything Sherlock had been through, to get home again afterwards...

Well then. Sherlock can take the dark days as they come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what can I say? Thank you all SO MUCH for reading this rambley, dark, probably-too-long fic. Thank you for encouraging me to write it in the first place after The Tiger's Paw. Thank you for the comments, the kudos, the subscriptions. You guys never fail to brighten my day! (haha, unintentional parallel to the end of the fic!)
> 
> I'll be back with an entirely different fic soon, but for now, I hope you are happy with how this ends.


End file.
